Page 100 of Theta

"Come faccio a sapere che non lo è?”

Silence.

"Cazzo, tio. Cazzo di merda. Mi hai fottuto."

"No, nipote. I fuck them over. You are family, they are not."

"Tio—"

"Dante," he snaps. "Enough. It is done. Ti mando a casa."

Dante responds in Italian, but I'm falling asleep—passing out, more accurately. I fight it desperately, but it's a losing battle. My fingers are clumsy and thick as I fumble at the IV, and the twinge of pain as I pull at it rouses me a little, and the beeping of the heart monitor increases.

I need Killy. He has to know.

He has to know.

"Hey, hey, hey. Easy." Killian's voice, close, low, quiet. "I'm here. You're okay." To someone else, then. "She's in pain. Can you increase her meds?"

No, no, no. I struggle, but warmth floods me, a blissful nothing that makes the panic subside.

No…

They're coming.

But I can't make myself care anymore—the all-consuming dark is warm and peaceful and quiet and so, so easy to slip into.

I wake again, this time to darkness and the trill of frogs and crickets. A small lamp casts a dim sepia glow, and I hear the beeping of the monitor. I look around—this is a bedroom converted to a makeshift recovery room. I take an exploratory breath—mistake. Big, big, big mistake—the lance of pain is swift and brutal. If I’m lying flat, holding still, and breathing shallowly, I’m relatively okay. But breathe too deeply or move too quickly, the pain is immediate and incredible—and that's with drugs.

Once I've recovered from my stupid experiment, memory of the overheard conversation smashes through me like a detonating frag grenade.

I need Killian.

But my god, I simply cannot fathom trying to get up. Even reaching for the side of the bed in an initial foray into getting up leaves me panting and groaning and sweating and about to vomit from the agony.

Yeah, that's not happening. Dammit.

I have to spend another few minutes recovering from simply trying to reach for the bedside. Where is Killian?

I need him.

He has to know.

I hold my breath until my lungs burn and my temples throb and the heart monitor starts protesting rapidly as the lack of oxygen makes my heart race. Even the rapid slam of my heart against my ribcage hurts.

An elderly woman with steel-gray hair in a low bun bustles in, a tablet computer in her hand, real-deal half-moon spectacles perched on her nose.

"Hey, hey, hey," she croons, her English lilting with her accent. “Is okay, is okay. You are safe, now."

Yeah, right.

"Killy."

"Your boyfriend?"

I nod.

“He is sleeping. He is hurt more badly than he says to you."