Page 122 of Sweet Oblivion

Thanks to family connections, my ass even sat in the hallway outside the MRI suite when she got her scan. No damage beyond the cut that required seventeen stitches to close. She caught it on something when she fell. Amazingly, she walked away from there with a mid-grade concussion and no permanent damage.

It’s her lungs we have to worry about.

It took hours to clear the carbon monoxide from her body and get her oxygen levels up. Her lungs are swollen and irritated, but they’ll heal. It’ll take weeks. But she’ll breathe on her own again.

She’ll live.

And so will I.

I run my hand over her hair and kiss her cheek.

“I need her to wake up, Dad.” My voice cracks, and I look up at my father, expecting to see pity in his eyes. The few people who’ve been allowed in have all had the same look. But not Dad. His eyes are hard. They’re clinical.

“She’s going to, Ryker. But she’s going to do it when her body is ready. Don’t rush her. She needs this. Come with me. Let’s get out of this room for a few minutes. Get some fresh air.”

“Would you leave if it was Mom?” It’s a low blow, but I know the answer without him saying it, and so does he. When I look up at him, he shakes his head. It’s a small movement, but it’s there, and I appreciate the honesty. “Go. I’m fine. Maybe bring me back a coffee.”

“If you stay, I stay.”

“She’s my wife, Dad. You don’t have to stay. A coffee would be nice.” And so would a minute alone with Delaney.

“One day, you’ll have a family of your own, son. And then you’ll understand. You stay to give her your strength. I stay to give you mine. I’ll text your mother and ask if someone can get us some decent coffee.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

DELANEY

I looked into his eyes and saw my future shining back in mine.

—Delaney’s Secret Thoughts

My eyes are dry and scratchy when I open them, much like my throat. Like they don’t remember what it feels like to be used. Like it’s been... days.

My gaze darts around the dark room, not quite focusing until I see him. Ryker. His face pressed to my hand as he holds it between his. Dark scruff growing along his jaw and his hair disheveled.

“Ryker,” I croak, but little sound comes out as my throat burns.

He doesn’t hear me. With or without hearing aids, I’m not surprised. I’m not sure if I even heard me.

I drag my hand out from under his handsome face and run my fingers through his hair as realization dawns.

I’m in a hospital room.

The pieces begin to flash across my fuzzy thoughts, but they don’t make sense.

The apartment.

Brooks.

Tori . ..

“Lane?” My gorgeous husband lifts his head, and haunted blue eyes stare back at me. “Am I dreaming?”

I drag my thumb along his cheek. “I don’t think so,” I croak, my words barely above a whisper, and yet, they still require every ounce of energy I think I’ve ever had. “Water,” I beg and close my eyes as Ryker moves a glass to my lips, pressing a straw in.

“Little sips, baby.”

Ice-cold water stings my sore throat like ocean waves lapping against an open cut.