Page 117 of Speechless
The logical side of his brain demanded to know the full extent of Jenna’s injuries so he could work out how to treat her effectively, with the best possible outcome.
Another part of his brain took a decidedly different train of thought. “Cain?”
“Yeah, bro?”
“Sire?”
Long, long silence. Even the whirr of the chopper blades seemed to stop in mid spin. Cain sighed softly and patted Connor’s shoulder. “You did good, Connor. That’s all you need to know.”
Satisfied with that answer for now, Connor let go.
*
Three days later, he was going insane with worry and boredom. The constant updates from Sarah and Cain didn’t make him feel any better, especially when he was hooked up to an IV, his leg elevated, and his shoulder swaddled like a newborn.
Hadley had pulled through his own surgery and remained in intensive care. He hadn’t regained consciousness yet, his body was fighting to heal itself, but the doctors were hopeful he’d have a full recovery in good time.
Jenna…it caused Connor physical distress to recall her injuries. So much damage inflicted upon such a small woman. Months, if not years, of physical therapy ahead of her.
Sarah had told him the surgeons had managed to save Jenna’s hands, but only just. Cutting edge methods had been used to repair the nerve damage, but it wasn’t enough to guarantee she’d regain full use of them. Loss of circulation caused by the wire cuffs, as well as exposure to the freezing temperatures, had brought the surgical team to a hard decision; to amputate both appendages, or repair what they could and let nature take its course.
They’d opted for repair and time.
The broken arm had been pinned and plated, with good results expected for recovery. The broken ribs were being left to heal on their own, but they’d inserted a chest tube to alleviate the pressure from the traumatic pneumothorax she’d sustained.
A plastic surgeon had been brought in to assess the numerous lacerations from the car crash and Sire’s whip. The cuts on her legs from broken glass had been cleaned and deemed minor enough not to need interference, while the gashes on her head and thighs, the ligature wounds on her wrists, had been taken care of by the surgeon.
Sarah assured Connor the man had done exceptional work.
CT scans had shown internal bleeding and bruising from repeated kicks to the stomach. Doctors were monitoring it, but apparently weren’t too concerned. It was a case of letting it heal by itself.
Jenna’s concussion was severe, but not life-threatening. There were hairline fractures in her jaw and cheekbone, and Connor could only surmise that Sire had used his fists. From what Sarah recounted, the bruising and swelling had finally begun to subside.
All in all, his woman had gone to hell and back, and hadn’t yet finished the trip.
Alone in his room, Connor stewed. He shouldn’t be here while Jenna laid in a bed down the hall surrounded by strangers. It didn’t matter she hadn’t come around yet; she needed familiarity when she did. She’d need him.
Fuck it.
Connor flipped the covers back and grimaced at the sight of his bruised body. Sire had gotten in a few punches of his own, not that it mattered to Connor. But the bastard had still left his mark.
Dressed in only a pair of cotton pajama bottoms—he’d refused to wear the stupid fucking gown point-blank—he swung his legs over the side of the bed and blew out a long breath. This might be harder than he anticipated.
He pulled the IV free, switched off the flow so it didn’t leak all over and give the nurses a headache trying to clean it up, and let his bare feet touch the cool floor. Using his good arm, he braced his weight with a hand on the mattress and stood, swaying with a light head as he tried to gather his balance.
Not trusting his legs completely, he shuffled forward, ignoring the twinge and burn of his bum leg. Propping himself against the wall, he all but dragged his body to the door, and was exhausted before he gripped the handle.
Opening it, he poked his head out and peered along the hallway. Clear in all directions. Slowly, acting as though he had every right to be sneaking out of his room without doctor’s clearance—hell, hewasa doctor, he could clear himself for physical activity—he edged down the empty corridor using everything he could for support.
“Connor Jameson O’Malley, what in the ever-loving hell do you think you’re doing?”
He didn’t stop, didn’t so much as pause even though Sarah used his full Sunday name. If he stopped, he was going down and not getting back up. “Doing what I should have done three damn days ago.”
“Zeke, darling, would you help Connor back to bed?” Sarah called out as she hurried to Connor’s side and slipped her arm around his waist.
“I need to see her, Sarah.”
“I know. I know you do, Con, but now isn’t the time.”