Page 22 of Life Or Death

“You’re beautiful,” he rasps. “So fucking beautiful.”

I shake my head, my hands still pressed against my face as tears roll down my cheeks. I don’t believe him. I look back at Tori. Her lips move, but I don’t hear what she’s saying over the voice that sounds in my head, telling me my life is over.

“Mrs. Holland, we’re going to give you something for the pain. It’s going to help you relax and get some rest.”

Something cold slides into my veins through the IV, and almost immediately, the edges of the world begin to soften.

The darkness doesn’t last as long this time. When I surface, the room is dimmer. My throat feels like sandpaper, and my legs ache with a dull, persistent throb that the morphine has barely managed to dull.

I turn my head slowly, and Lucifer is still there, sitting in the chair next to my bed, one boot propped on the opposite knee, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes widen slightly when he realizes mine are open, and he sits straighter in the chair.

Everything from earlier comes rushing back, and my gaze drops to my legs. The sheet covers them, but I know beneath it lies the horrible truth.

My gaze slides back to Lucifer. I open my mouth to speak, but my throat is too dry. That’s when I spot the pitcher of water sitting on the rolling tray next to him. Lucifer tracks my gaze and reaches for one of the plastic cups, filling it with water before he drops a straw inside the cup.

He stands with the cup in his hand, bringing the straw to my lips, and I take a small sip, wincing as I swallow. But the water is cool and soothing, so I ignore the discomfort and take another greedy sip.

That’s when he pulls the straw away from me.

“Slow,” he grunts. “Too much and you’ll choke.”

He brings the straw back to my lips, and I take another tentative sip. When I’ve had my fill, I pull my lips away from the straw, and he sets the cup back on the rolling cart before he lowers himself back into the chair.

For a beat, neither of us says anything. Then I break the silence.

“I wasn’t dreaming?”

Not about the fire, or the burns.

The pain is very real, and so is the man sitting beside me.

And somehow, that’s the most jarring realization of them all.

He clears his throat and shakes his head. “No, not a dream.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

LUCIFER

There are things that stay with a man, minor blips in time that he replays on his deathbed. Sins he tries to repent when he’s sitting in purgatory, waiting for the devil to drag him into his lair.

For me, the list is long, and everything on it centers on my club. Such as my first kill and the day I got my colors. Being appointed President, and feeling the weight of the gavel in my hand as I took my seat at the head of the table and called church to session for the first time.

Shit like that.

For good men, the highlight reel looks a little different, and it doesn’t play in purgatory. It focuses on the beautiful moments that made their lives worth living. Like the day they met their wives and held their child in their arms for the first time.

Today, I got a taste of how the other side lives, and there ain’t a doubt in my mind that when my time is up, I’ll remember Jess opening her eyes and looking at me.

The fear that seemed to fade the longer those hazel eyes stayed locked with mine and the relief that crashed over me.

The high I got just two seconds ago when she spoke to me.

A man could get addicted to her, and if I had a lick of self-preservation, I’d get the hell out of here. Instead, I hold her stare and commit every inch of her face to my memory.

The silence stretches between us. There’s so much to say, but words aren’t really my thing, and even if they were, there’s no sugarcoating the conversation we’re about to have.

“Why are you here?” she finally asks, her voice still raw from the tube.