Page 50 of Velvet Corruption

“But I’m so pretty,” I shot back.

“You’re…alright, I guess,” she scoffed.

I looked over at her, finding the ghost of a smile on her face.

That was good. She was still sassy as hell.

“Rude,” I replied. “But fine.”

The ER was nothing like the waiting room at urgent care—it was packed, with people coughing and slumped on chairs, a couple of people bleeding from their faces. I could hear sirens approaching outside. I grabbed a blue face mask from the entrance and put it over my ears to cover my face, then handed one to her.

Masks in place, Ruby led me over to a cluster of chairs, leaning into me now even though I was sure she still didn’t want to. Once we were seated, she exhaled shakily, like even that was an ordeal. I wanted to say something, to reassure her that I wouldn’t leave, but I couldn’t find the words. Instead, I reached for the clipboard, ready to fill it out if she couldn’t.

She grabbed it before I could, hunching over it like a dog guarding raw meat. Her pen moved across the page slowly, each answer looking like a struggle. Her injured hand just happened to be her dominant hand, and she was trying to act like she wasn’t writing like a drunk toddler with a broken crayon.

"You sure you don’t want me to handle that?" I offered, my voice low enough for only her to hear. “You’re making it look like a ransom note.”

“I’ve got it.”

“No, you don’t,” I said. “You’re right-handed and bleeding all over the page. Let me fill this out.”

“You want me to tell you my address and my insurance details?”

I shrugged. “Let’s be real. I already know your address. And what can I do with your insurance details—file a claim for emotional distress?”

She let out a frustrated sigh but didn't hand the clipboard over. "Fine. Ask, but no unnecessary questions. This isn’t twenty questions, Kieran."

I smirked. "I make no promises." I grabbed the pen from her and scanned the top of the form. "Full name?"

"Really?" She arched a brow. "You don’t know my full name?"

"Maybe I like hearing you say it," I shot back.

Her eye roll could have killed me on the spot. "Rubiela Elena Marquez," she muttered.

I jotted it down, pretending not to notice the way her gaze softened slightly at the sound of her own name. "Date of birth?"

"June second."

I raised a brow. "You’re a Gemini? That actually explains a lot."

“Hey, fuck you,” she said. “What are you? A Virgo?”

“Ouch. No. Worse.”

Her brow furrowed. “Worse?”

“Scorpio.”

She exhaled through her nose, like she was physically restraining herself from committing a crime. “Of course you are.”

“Scorpio slander. Typical Gemini shit. Okay. Address—though, like I said, I already know that one," I continued, and jotted it down.

She leaned her head back against the wall, her skin paling.

"Emergency contact?"

Her expression hardened. "Julian Garcia."