Cracked Kingdom (The Royals #5)(4)

“That good, huh?” the voice says. “Why don’t we give her another thirty milligrams of Toradol, but make sure to watch for bleeding.”

“Yessir.”

“Great.” Someone snaps two pieces of metal together, making me wince.

What happened to me? Why am I in so much pain that even my teeth ache? Did I get in an accident?

“Steady there.” A hand presses me back onto something soft—a mattress. “Don’t sit up.”

A mechanical whir buzzes and the back of the bed raises. I manage to unstick one of my eyelids and, through my lashes, I see a bed rail, the edge of a white coat, and another dark blob.

“What happened?” I croak.

“You were in a car accident,” the dark blob at my side says. “When the airbag deployed it broke a couple ribs on the left side. Your eardrum burst. As a result of the vestibular imbalance along with some dyspnea—that’s shortness of breath—you passed out and hit your noggin pretty hard. You have a concussion and some mild brain trauma.”

“Brain trauma?”

I raise my hand toward my chest, wincing the whole way, until I can press my palm over my heart. I gasp. That hurts. I slowly lower my arm back to my side.

“It’s still beating, if you’re wondering.” That’s from the original voice. He must be the doctor. “You shorter girls need to try to sit as far from the steering wheel as possible. A deploying airbag is like getting punched in the face with a one-ton truck.”

I let my heavy lids fall shut again and try to remember, but there’s nothing in my head. It feels empty and full at the same time.

“Can you tell me what day it is?”

Day...I recite them one by one in my head. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday—but none of them register as being accurate. “How long...been...here?” I manage to ask. My throat feels raw, but I don’t know how an accident would cause that to happen.

“Here,” the female voice says, pushing a straw against my lips. “It’s water.”

The water feels like a blessing, and I gulp until the straw’s removed from my reach.

“That’s enough. We don’t want you getting sick.”

Sick off water? I lick my dry lips but can’t muster up any energy to argue. I slump back onto the pillows.

“You’ve been here for three days. Let’s play a game,” the doc suggests. “Can you tell me how old you are?”

That one’s easy. “Fourteen.”

“Hmmm.” He and the nurse exchange a look that I can’t figure out. Am I too young for the drugs they’re giving me?

“And your name?”

“Sure.” I open my mouth to answer, but my mind goes blank. I close my eyes and try again. Nothing. A big fat nothing. I glance at the doctor in panic. “I can’t...” I gulp and give my head a fierce shake. “It’s...”

“Don’t worry about it.” He grins easily, as if it’s no big deal that I can’t remember my own name. “Give her another dose of morphine and a Benzo cocktail and call me when she wakes up.”

“On it, Doctor.”

“But I—wait,” I say as his footsteps fade.

“Shh. It’ll be fine. Your body needs the rest,” the nurse says, placing a restraining hand on my shoulder.

“I need to know—I need to ask,” I correct myself.

“No one’s going anywhere. We’ll all be here when you wake up. I promise.”

Because it hurts too much to move, I let myself be reassured. She’s right, I decide. The doctor will be here, because this is a hospital and that’s where doctors work. Why I’m here, how I got hurt—that can all wait. The morphine and Benzo cocktail—whatever that is—sounds good. I’ll ask more questions the next time I’m awake.

I don’t sleep well, though. I hear noises and voices—high, low, anxious, angry. I frown and try to tell the worried ones that I’m going to be all right. I hear a name on repeat—Hartley, Hartley, Hartley.

“Is she going to be okay?” asks a deep male voice. It’s the one I’ve been hearing say that name—Hartley. Is it mine?

I lean toward the voice, like a flower seeking the sun.

“All signs point to that. Why don’t you get some sleep, son. If you don’t, you’re going to be in the same bed as her.”

“Well, I’m hopeful,” cracks the first voice.

The doc laughs. “That’s definitely the right attitude to have.”

“So I can stay, right?”

“Nope. I’m still kicking you out.”

Don’t go, I plead, but the voices don’t listen to me and all too soon I’m left with the dark, suffocating silence.





Chapter 3





Easton





The Maria Royal wing of Bayview General feels like a morgue. Every person in the plush waiting room is cloaked in their own fog of grief. The dark cloud is about to swallow me whole.

“I’m going to get some air,” I mutter to Reed.

His eyes narrow. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Like putting my kid in a wing named after a mom who killed herself?” I mock.