Page 45

Dr. Hawthorne stays with me. She seems to watch me closely, although I can’t tell if she’s wondering about my mental status or if I’m going to immediately run away to get drugs.

I feel… stable, actually. As much as I’m worried, the thought of how heroin might help is one of the quieter voices in my head. The ride across the ocean into Sterling Falls is relatively smooth, and she ushers me into a waiting car at the marina.

Everything is arranged, I suppose.

The driver takes us to the hospital. We get out at the front entrance, and I explain to the receptionist that I’m the emergency contact for Saint.

I can barely force out the words, and my hands tremble. I ball them into fists and stick them in my jacket, needing to hide my nerves.

Dr. Hawthorne steps up and guides me down the hall, following directions I missed.

“He’s okay?” I ask her.

“She didn’t say. We’ll talk to someone at the nurse’s station.”

“Okay.”

We take the elevator up to the third floor. I follow her down the hall and we stop to get an update and find out where exactly to go.

“First and foremost,” the nurse says, “is that he is alive.”

I blow out a breath.

“He has a concussion from the accident. Our plastic surgeon stitched up a deep gash on his head, and he has a sprained wrist that we’ve wrapped. He seems to be in okay spirits. We told him that we called you.”

The last time I saw Saint—well, the last time I laid eyes on his face—was through the pixelated webcam. And he said he loved me.

I feel it.

I carry it.

And I want to say it back to his face, when I’m able to touch him. Being on Isle of Paradise… yes, it was exactly what I needed to hear to keep me going. But I’m just excited to see him, injured or not.

Especially since the nurse said he’s okay .

“Can I see him?” I ask.

The nurse nods. “Of course. Room 305.”

Dr. Hawthorne trails me down the hall, her steps slowing. “There’s someone else here I should check on,” she tells me. “You go on, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

Nerves at suddenly being abandoned flitter through me, but I shake it off and enter the room.

The bed closest to the door is empty. There’s a curtain pulled between it and the other one, and only the foot of Saint’s bed is visible.

My heart jumps into my throat, and I hurry around it.

“Surprise!” I call, popping into his view.

He might’ve been dosing. His eyes snap open, and he lifts his head. It takes him a second to focus on me.

There’s a bandage on his forehead, and his left forearm arm is wrapped. He has two black eyes and a scrape across his cheek. An IV in the top of his hand.

Something in me unknots.

He’s okay .

I go to the side of his bed. “You gave me quite the scare. How are you feeling?”

His gaze goes from my head to my toes and back up again. His brows pull together.

“Artemis? What are you doing here?”

I slip my hand into his and squeeze. “They let me out so I could see you.”

“Who let you out? The nurse said…” He frowns. “I’m confused.”

“I…” I glance over my shoulder. “Were you expecting Reese?”

He pulls his hand out of mine.

I cross my arms, trying not to let that simple action hurt.

What is going on?

His gaze moves past me. “I wasn’t expecting… that person. The nurse said family was on their way, and now you’re here?”

“Yeah, well?—”

“Did you drive Elora?”

I stop. “What?”

“Elora,” he repeats. He cranes to the side, as if expecting someone else. “Did you drive her here? I imagine she might be a mess, hearing I was in the hospital… I didn’t want her to worry. I told them to tell her I was fine.”

I don’t think my lungs are working properly. “You told the nurses to tell Nyx…?”

He eyes me. “Were you training at Olympus together? Is that why you came, too?”

He thinks she’s alive.

He thinks she’s going to walk into this hospital room.

My stomach heaves, and I swallow my nausea.

This cannot be real life.

“Saint,” I say faintly. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Why?”

“Just—”

He freezes. The blood drains from his face.

Okay. Okay, it was just a momentary thing. Confusion due to the concussion. I step forward, ready to comfort him about his lapse, but he just grips the blankets pooled at his waist. He shakes his head once, eyes wide, then grimaces.

“Please tell me she wasn’t in the car with me, Artemis.” His voice is hoarse. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost her. God, I don’t even remember getting in the car, or the accident. Is she okay?”

Is she okay?

Well, she’s not suffering. Not like me.

He’s actively pulling my heart out.

He doesn’t know she’s dead.

His gaze slides past me again. “Did you sneak in here? Or lie about being family?”

“No. Saint .” My eyes burn.

“You and her just fought at Olympus the other night. She kicked your ass and made some comment about a girl in a flower mask shaking things up for the guys.” He seems oblivious to my growing horror. “We went home. Fucking hell, Artemis, how much time did I lose? A day?”

“Two years,” I breathe.

Give or take .

He stills.

I can’t fucking move, either. We’re locked in a stare, and I just wish he could read my mind and get with the program.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he demands. “Is this some sick joke?”

How the fuck do I do this?

I bite back the words I want to say—that I love him, that I’m sorry. It wouldn’t make anything easier. Not for me, and certainly not for him. If I’m in his shoes: I haven’t experienced a fucking war. Torture. Death . I haven’t grieved Nyx’s terrible end for over a year.

“It’s not.” I close my eyes, then force myself to open them look at him. He deserves that much. “I’m so sorry, Saint. What you’re about to hear… I know what happened to you the last time—the first time. And I guess… we’re about to relive it.”

“Just spit it out,” he says. “You’re starting to scare me.”

I exhale. Tears blur my vision.

“Nyx— Elora died, Saint. A year ago.”

He stares at me.

Stares and stares and stares.

I cannot fathom what’s going through his mind.

I didn’t expect this. I couldn’t. I thought—well, I guess I thought I was going to be crying happy tears.

“Get out.”

I flinch.

Is he serious?

Saint’s face flushes. His chest heaves, like he had forgotten how to breathe and now can’t catch his breath. His eyes are wide open, and he slams his hand on the bed suddenly.

“I said get out !” he screams.

I jump out of my skin.

In all our arguments, all the long nights working through our grief—separately, together, whatever —he’s never sounded like he does right now. On the cusp of losing his damn mind.

My heart breaks.

Two nurses rush in, and they seem to understand what’s going on in an instant. One goes to the monitor beside his head, the other grabs my arm. She escorts me quickly into the hall, then down to a private room.

I sit.

“Try to breathe.” She crouches in front of me. She rubs my arms. “Breathe, honey.”

I can’t.

I want—I need— gah.

The only thing that would make this better is a needle in my arm. The sweet rush of heroin taking away the pain. And that thought is the worst of them all.

My sob comes out strangled. But now, at least, I can cry.

The nurse gets up and the door closes behind her. I cry on my own, hiccupping and sniffling like an idiot.

When the door opens next, it isn’t her.

It’s Reese.

I get up and launch myself into his arms. All the misery crashes down on me.

“Don’t let me use,” I sob into his chest. “I don’t want to start over again.”

“Shh. I won’t let anything happen to you, golden girl.” He strokes my hair. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, we’ll get through it.”

I focus on the rise and fall of his chest under my cheek. The steadiness of his heart.

When I finally stop hyperventilating, I rock back on my heels.

He cups my cheek and swipes away the falling tears. “What happened?”

“He—he’s got amnesia, Reese. He didn’t remember Nyx dying… or any of the past two years.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he processes my words. Slowly, the resolve comes over him. He nods to himself like he knows exactly what to do, and I am so fucking thankful for that.

Because I am utterly lost.