Fourth Debt (Indebted #5)(40)

“W—what treat—treatment?”

He beamed, a rush of pride emitting from him, his emotions of a job well done and workplace satisfaction buffeting me. “I don’t know how much you remember, but you were shot.”

I nodded. “My m—memory is fully in—intact.” The more I spoke, the more my throat found it easier to talk.

“Ah, that’s great news. As you are aware then, a bullet sliced through your side.” He leaned over me. “I don’t need to tell you how close it came to being a fatal wound. An abdominal injury can rupture intestines, liver, spleen, and kidneys. There are also major vessels that can be nicked—all of which equal a lower possibility of survival—especially in your case, since you were unable to seek treatment straight away.”

Why was that?

I couldn’t recall.

Memories of time skipping and fire hissing tried to make sense. Kestrel had been beside me…

Kes!

I lashed out, grabbing the doctor’s wrist. My body flared with agony, but I ignored it. “The other m—man. Is he here, t—too?” I didn’t dare say his name. I doubted he would be under it anyway—same as me.

Doctor Louille paused, his happiness at my recovery fading as helplessness smothered his thoughts. “Your brother is still with us, but…we don’t know for how long. His injuries were more extensive, less straightforward to operate.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll tell you about him soon. First, let me explain your condition and then you need to rest. There is time for everything else later.”

No, there is no time.

If Kes wasn’t doing well, I wanted to see him before it was too late.

I need my brother. My friend.

“You’re what I call an extraordinary luckster.” Louille smiled. “I once had a patient who slipped in the bath and shattered a window. The glass sliced his neck but missed the jugular and carotid artery. Do you know how nearly impossible that is? But he was lucky. I’ve had many patients that, by right, should be dead but somehow tricked death into leaving them alone.” He patted my shoulder. “You’re the latest luckster. The bullet sliced through the high side of your abdomen, passing through the muscles surrounding core vitals, and never entering the abdominal cavity. You would’ve passed out from the overload of adrenaline and pain, and it would’ve been horrendously messy and bloody, but here we are.”

My head pounded.

Here I was.

I’ve been given a second chance.

I wasn’t so rotten that I deserved to die; wasn’t so evil to merit a one-way ticket to hell.

I’m not going to waste it.

I would use this new life to fix all my wrongs and ensure I deserved the luck I’d been given.

“H—how l—long?”

Doctor Louille ran a hand over his moustache. “You were in surgery for three hours and asleep for three days in intensive care. Your vitals were finally strong enough to wean you off the sedative and let nature take its course.”

Three days?

Three f*cking days!

Shit, what about Nila?

My heart clanged out of control. An exorbitant amount of adrenaline swamped me. Hurling myself upward, I lurched for the edge of the bed. Pain be damned. Motherf*cking bullet wound be damned.

Three days!

“I—I have to g—go.”

Louille slammed his hands on my shoulders, pushing me back against the mattress. “What the hell are you doing? I just told you you were lucky. You trying to ruin that luck?”

I struggled, seeing a clock ticking closer to Nila’s death everywhere I looked.

Nila!

Three days!

What had they done to her in that time?

“Let—let me g—go!”

“No chance in hell, buddy. You’re my patient. You’ll follow my rules.” Louille’s fingers dug into my biceps, holding me in place. “Calm down or I’ll restrain you. You want that?”

I froze, breath wheezing in and out. My stomach gnashed with agonising pain.

Three days…

My energy disappeared. A wash of sickness almost made me vomit. Oh, f*ck. The room turned upside down.

Louille sympathised, letting me go. “The nausea will pass. It’s the morphine. Just lie still and you’ll be okay.”

All I could think about was Nila and the fact I’d abandoned her.

Fuck!

“Molly, perhaps increase Mr. Ambrose’s dose and arrange a sedative.”

“No!” I’d already lost so much time. No way in hell would I lose anymore. I needed every minute awake to heal and run back to my woman.

My eyes fell on a girl in the background. A nurse with blonde hair in a bun and a clipboard in her hand. Her emotions were shuttered, barely registering on my condition. Either she guarded herself well or the nausea kept my sensitivity to a minimum.

Forcing myself to remain sane—at least until the doctor left so I could plan my escape—I asked, “H—how long will I h—have to s—stay here?”

“Why? You got some skiing trip to attend in Switzerland?” Doctor Louille laughed. When he noticed I was dead serious, he cleared his throat. “I estimate three weeks to be fully fixed. Two weeks for the wound to heal and another week for the internal bruising to recede. Twenty-one days, Mr. Ambrose, then I’ll sign the discharge papers and send you on your merry way.”