Sin & Suffer (Pure Corruption MC #2)(114)

What does that mean? Would he be the same man I knew? The same boy I’d fallen in love with?

“Will he be okay?” My voice was a tinny thread.

The doctor sighed. “As long as he listens this time and takes it easy, I have no cause to believe otherwise. Like I said, his injuries are serious, but the human body has repaired much worse. In situations such as these, it’s common for a patient to wake and be in full capacity of their intellect, vocabulary, and show no adverse effects. Unlike other operations where healing is hindered with pain, the brain is different. Miraculous really.”

I didn’t know half of what he meant. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was holding him and witnessing for myself he was okay.

My muscles vibrated, threatening to come apart. “Can I see him?”

“Of course.” The doctor lowered his clipboard, waving down the corridor for me to follow. Silently, I trailed in his wake, feeling like I walked the pathway of death. Bright lights hurt my eyes; antiseptic stung my nose.

Planting his hand on a door, the doctor cracked it open and stepped back. “I’ll give you two a minute. He’s awake but groggy. We’ll monitor him closely over the next twelve hours. Don’t be alarmed. Half of his head is shaven and fully bandaged, and he’s broken a couple of bones, but overall, he’s strong and on the mend.”

Broken bones?

Never-ceasing tears sprang to my eyes.

Oh, Art.

Unable to speak, I slipped past him into the room where a single bed hovered in the center, serenaded by gentle beeps and irregular humming.

My eyes drank in the man tucked tightly beneath starched sheets.

I blinked, staring at him.

Or at least, I stared at … someone.

Someone lay in the bed.

But I didn’t recognize them.

Where was Arthur? My huge fearless Libran with arms roped with muscle and chest broadened with power?

This man was a stranger.

Covering my mouth, I drank in his injuries with horror.

His arm was at a right angle, encased in a fresh cast. His cheek scraped and raw, parts covered in gauze. And his head was covered in bandages. He looked so … lifeless. So broken.

My knees quaked as I crossed the short distance and went to him. “Arthur …”

He didn’t respond. I stopped beside the bed, fingers trembling as I touched his cool cheek, doing my best not to look at the turban of white covering his shaggy dark hair.

The doctor had warned me.

His hair will be gone beneath that.

But no matter how much information I learned—no matter the statistics or in-depth detail of his operation and recovery—nothing could soften the blow of seeing the man I loved so bruised, crumbled, and pained.

Taking his hand, I squeezed his fingers. “Arthur … can you hear me?”

Nothing.

His face was white as the sheets, eyes ringed with shadow.

Urgency possessed me. He had to see me, had to open his eyes to know I was there …

I would always be there.

“Arthur. Please …”

I tightened my hold on his cold hand, wishing upon wishes for him to respond.

The fear of his concussion crushed me. The memory of him being a devil to rouse a few days ago caused a sob to build in my lungs. “Art …”

I rolled my shoulders, pressing my forehead on his chest. Wires and monitors covered him—some slinking beneath the bandage around his head—others snaking down the front of his hospital gown.

I wanted to rip them all away. To free him from suffering. To protect him.

“Arthur … please. I need to see that you’re okay …”

He left me stranded for another long moment, but then something changed. A gathering of awareness—a coming to from deep slumber.

The first sign of life was a twitch, a breath, an extra beep as his heart woke up. The next was parted lips and color flooding to ghostly cheeks. It was like watching a butterfly escape from a chrysalis.

And then finally, his eyes opened.

They were just as green and brilliant as I remembered.

The color bowled into me, wrapping me in emerald hope and chasing away my clinging fears. “Oh, thank God.”

I pressed a kiss on his cheek, inhaling him. His scent was faint, hidden beneath antiseptic but traces of leather and sea salt existed.

He still existed.

“You’re okay … you’re going to be okay.” I peppered his face with love.

He groaned, shifting away a little.

Pulling back, I blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to attack you. It’s just … God, it’s been a horrible night.”

He frowned, his eyes locking onto mine.

My heart stopped.

No …

Instead of love and affection, they were blank. Cold as rock and empty as a tomb.

Pain.

Pain I never knew existed splintered through me.

“Art?” A watery smile pulled my lips. “It’s me … Cleo.”

His forehead furrowed. He shook his head.

No. No, please.

Nightmares swarmed me with thoughts of him forgetting me. Of our roles reversing. Of amnesia tormenting me all over again by making me the forgotten not the forgetful.

I wouldn’t be able to survive. I couldn’t live in a world where Arthur didn’t love me. Even while we were apart I’d felt it—some cosmic bond keeping me alive. He’d kept me strong. He was the reason I’d kept going.