Page 2 of Where the Wind Whispers

And the wheel marks …

Violet’s gaze followed those to where a janitor was just starting to clean them, the heady scent of bleach filling the hallway.

Someone said something—a question, she was sure—but she didn’t really hear it. She couldn’t hear anything over the rushing in her ears or the tightening of her lungs with every breath that seemed to be a little more painful than the last.

Ruslan finally looked up, but he stared past her to someone else. Bloody fingers lifted high to his throat, slashing back and forth without even saying a word.

It took a while, more questions and silence, before sound began to bleed through Violet’s overworked senses.

Throat.

Cut.

Bled out.

Touch and go.

But worst of all was the I don’t know’s.

She’d heard the question that came before that answer, but she really didn’t want to.

Is Kaz alive?

“I don’t know.”

“Dim those goddamn lights.”

Violet’s words weren’t heeded, and the people around her were talking far too loud. The beeping monitors, hissing oxygen, and the respirator pump surely didn’t help.

Words like pneumonia, coma, and infection were being thrown around among medical jargon like she was supposed to fucking understand.

Oh, Violet understood.

She understood that Kaz was dying.

“Dim those fucking lights,” Violet snapped louder the second time.

Finally, the nurses, doctor, and Ruslan realized she was talking. For a long while, they stopped what they were doing, all their movements and conversation, to just stare at her as if she’d grown a second head.

Maybe—somewhere in the back of her numb senses—she understood why they were looking at her like she was crazy.

What would it matter to the man in the bed if the lights were as bright as day or dimmed to a bearable level? What would he care if they talked in hushed tones instead of loud voices that would wake the dead?

Why would he care, as he was unconscious and immobilized?

Still keeping one eye on Violet, a nurse close to the door where the switches were located reached over and dimmed the lights.

Violet’s attention went back to Kaz.

Gray skin.

Cold hands.

His eyes were closed—taped shut, actually. A tube attached to the respirator machine that was keeping him breathing had been shoved down his throat. Bandages, stained pink and needing to be changed soon—for the third time since she’d been allowed in his ICU room—wrapped his throat, hiding the damage beneath and the staples from the surgery.

He might need another, one doctor had said.

Another surgery, depending on how the night went.