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Pain lanced through Sasha, sharp and immediate, clawing through her ribs like an iron band tightening around her lungs. Her ankle throbbed with each heartbeat, her skin burned as if she’d been dragged across concrete, and something was constricting her wrist.
Forcing her eyes open a fraction, she made out the IV tubing snaking away from her arm.
What the hell?
She curled her fingers into the stiff, unfamiliar sheets that carried the distinct scent of industrial bleach. The steadybeep… beep… beepof a heart monitor threaded through her senses, dragging her fully into awareness.
The overhead fluorescent light was too bright, too sterile, burning behind her eyelids even when she squeezed them shut again. The air around her reeked of antiseptic, barely masking the metallic sting of dried blood—her blood, Gregorio’s blood…
Gregorio.
The name jolted through her consciousness like a lightning bolt, obliterating everything else. Her eyes flew open despite the stabbing pain it caused.
This wasn’t the SUV. This wasn’t the Santos house.
Hospital.
The realization snapped her into place with crystal clarity, and a new wave of panic surged through her.
She had to find him.
Sasha forced herself fully awake, but the movement rocketed a dull, nauseating ache through her skull. She gritted her teeth against it, pushing up on her elbows—
“Whoa there, tiger.” A warm, steady hand pressed against her shoulder, catching her before she could fully collapse from the sharp, breath-stealing pain that lanced through her ribs.
The edges of her vision went white, and she gasped.
Every part of her—her ankle, ribs, hands—screamed in protest.
“Yeah, that’s definitely a no.” The voice was familiar, tinged with both amusement and concern.
Through the haze of pain, she focused on the man beside her. Stryker. His usual cocky grin was replaced by concern as he carefully eased her back against the pillows. In his free hand, he held out a paper cup of coffee like a peace offering.
“You almost hit the floor pretty spectacularly back there, tiger.” Though his mouth quirked up at one corner, his eyes were serious as they swept over her face with quiet assessment.
Hit the floor?
Was he serious? Since she couldn’t remember anything after she was prevented from following Gregorio, maybe he was serious.
“You passed completely out. Not exactly your most graceful moment.”
Sasha swallowed, her throat desert-dry and scratchy. “I don’t faint,” she protested weakly.
Stryker’s eyebrows shot up, and genuine warmth crept into his expression. “No? Then I suppose I imagined having to catch you before you cracked your head open?” His voice held a gentle teasing note that took away some of her fear. “And I definitely didn’t have to carry you in here while you were doing a very convincing impression of Sleeping Beauty.”
She tried to glare at him, but suspected it came across as more of a weak grimace.
He just extended the coffee cup closer to her face, the rich aroma cutting through the antiseptic hospital smell. “Here. I had them make it exactly how you like it—strong enough to strip paint and sweet enough to rot teeth.”
She hesitated, then took the coffee with trembling fingers. The warmth seeped through her cold hands, grounding her in the moment. But the brief comfort vanished as memory crashed back with brutal force.
“Gregorio.” His name came out as a desperate whisper. She snapped her head toward Stryker so fast the room spun. “Where is he?”
Stryker’s playful expression sobered instantly, the change making him look dangerous for a fleeting moment before his features softened with compassion. “Still in surgery.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. Her stomach plunged, and the coffee nearly slipped from her grip.
“The docs say he lost a lot of blood,” Stryker continued, his voice steady and calm, as if he could transfer some of that steadiness to her through sheer force of will. He reached out to stabilize the coffee cup in her shaking hands. “But he’s strong. Too damn stubborn to give up without a fight.”