Page 126 of Speechless
Trusting her, too tired to contemplate anything else, Jenna nodded and wished she could feel a hand in hers. Squeeze Connor’s fingers, touch him in any way possible to verify his existence was real and make sure he wasn’t still hidden away like a secret. “Yes, please.”
“Are you in pain, sweetheart?”
It was hard to tell when pain was her constant companion. Sometimes it flowed like a river, sweeping her away on a firm but gentle current. Never-ending but not overwhelming. Other times, it cleaved her apart one bone at a time, stripping muscle away from skin and setting her nerves alight with agony.
Right now, it tangled her up in strong silken threads, tightening viciously with every breath. But she didn’t want the drugs to steal her away from Connor. They’d been apart so long it seemed like a lifetime, and wasting more time capitulating to physical discomfort was the last thing she wanted to do.
“Just tired.” And her jaw ached horribly.
“Hmmm. Too much excitement for your debut back to the living, I think.” Sarah’s fingertips stroked around Jenna’s eyes lightly as she peered into them. “Yeah, we’ve overdone your tolerance. Say goodnight to Connor, sweetheart.”
“Don’t want to.” Her useless arm twitched.
“Yes, well, unfortunately you don’t have a say in it this time.” Maryanne stepped up to the IV stand, resting her hand on Connor’s shoulder as she pressed a button on the box. “Connor, we’ll get you cleaned up and settled in just a moment.”
He mumbled something and Jenna shot Sarah a worried look. He didn’t sound right, certainly didn’t look like her strong, confident Daddy. The soft warmth of soothing relief swept over her, lifted her high above stress and worry and pain.
“He’ll be okay, Jenna. I’ve got him now. He’s exhausted and in pain, just like you so he needs to sleep. Just like you.” Sarah cupped Jenna’s face so gently she barely felt the contact of skin on skin, but she took comfort from it as the tethers holding her cloud to earth snapped and sent her floating away. “You’re both in excellent hands, sweetheart.”
*
For the best part of a week, they missed each other. One waking while the other slept, and vice versa. An immensely frustrating dilemma, one that slowly drove Connor up the wall. Not a man used to lounging around, the days of boredom were only broken up by watching Jenna sleep.
Their beds were close together, the inner guardrails lowered. During examinations, the nurses moved them apart so they could work and the doctors could do their jobs unhindered, but in the time between, the beds pressed against each other.
After his skirmish with the door, Connor had taken Sarah’s sermon on his idiocy as she cleaned and stitched the holes in his leg and shoulder. Granted, he’d been almost passed out with fatigue and the painkillers pumped into his body at the time, but he’d gotten the gist of the lecture.
Do not rugby tackle unlocked doors when injured.
Or ever.
Just use the goddamn handle, you moron.
It had been a blessing and a relief to climb into his bed when Joanna and Maryanne rolled it into place beside Jenna’s. They’d fussed, tucking him in so he could rest the back of his hand against Jenna’s bandaged one while he slept. For the first time in a week, he’d slept properly, content with her proximity, knowing she was safe.
Now, while his injuries were recovering well, Jenna’s were progressing more slowly. Connor had been caught more than once with his face in her charts, much to Maryanne’s displeasure, and he made sure he knew each and every wound she’d sustained at Sire’s hands.
Reading it hurt. Gouged at the tender spots beneath his professional exterior as his eyes scanned examination reports, studied x-rays and scans. His medical brain processed it all, concluded the patient was abnormally fortunate to survive her ordeal as well as the cold.
Connor’s normal brain couldn’t reconcile the image of her ruined body with the clinical medical jargon. For all intents and purposes, Jenna had been dead before Sire dragged her limp form down the porch steps.
His hands fisted in the sheets. She was alive, he reminded himself. She was right next to him, and the regular beep of the machines were telling him her heart still beat and her lungs continued to breathe oxygen into her veins. He’d heard her voice and seen her move. She wasalive.
Yet the panic attack hit him square in the chest.
It was the most sickening of sensations, one he’d never truly experienced. He’d coached Jenna through her own—if this was what she went through, then his coaching hadn’t done a damn thing, and Jenna was far, far stronger than he’d given her credit for.
A fist of tension gathered under his sternum, stealing his breath and his sensibilities. Nausea followed swiftly until he didn’t know whether to vomit or gasp for air. He couldn’t stop it, divert it, dispel it.
It consumed him.
“C-Connor.” Jenna’s sleep-riddled voice cut through the buzzing in his ears as he groaned. “D-Daddy, it’s okay.”
She’d nearly slipped through his fingers. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Emotions swirled into one indistinguishable riot, a terrible mess of confusion and terror. A howl of violent grief shredded him from the inside out, summoned by his deepest, darkest fears.
Twisting in the sheets, he rolled and tried to set his feet down on the floor, but his legs tangled in the covers and he went down to his knees, bent over with his forehead pressed to the tiles, desperately sucking in air he couldn’t get past the obstruction in his chest.
“Connor!” Jenna’s breathy voice strengthened, lost the sleepy edge. “Connor, you need to listen to me.”