Page 90 of A New Days Don

Minutes pass by feeling more like hours, but when the doctor finishes up, Mila is giggling on the bit of pain medicine they had given her, and her arm has been cleaned up.

“Mila, can you understand me?” Dr. McDonald asks.

“Yes, ma’am,” She attempts to move her injured left arm, but she winces, and I take hold of her hand to keep her from making that mistake again.

“You will be tender for a few days,” Dr. McDonald nods to her arm. “Take it easy for the next two to three weeks as the wound heals. We used dissolvable sutures so they will fall out when they are ready.”

She pauses, giving Mila a minute to process her words. Mila’s blue eyes follow the doctor’s lips as if trying to process everything, and when she does, she nods.

“You sustained a bullet wound to your upper bicep near your shoulder. The bullet shredded the area, but no bones were hit. We cleaned the wound and closed it up for you. You may feel weakness in that arm for a while, but we predict at least 80% recovery if you follow up weekly with a physiotherapist; that minimum is predicted to increase to 90%. Does that make sense?” Dr. McDonald asks, and I curse under my breath. She will see the best physiotherapist, and we will get her to 100% function.

“Yes, ma’am,” She murmurs with a nod, her eyes returning to mine, “Are we going home now?”

Mila’s pupils narrow as the adrenaline from being shot wears off. She’s going to panic.

“We are done,” I tell the doctor, and the woman dares to hesitate.

I appreciate her courage and integrity. When she doesn’t cower under my glare, I smirk, pleased that she puts Mila and being a caretaker above her life. She will live. “Before you go, I would like to get you a prescription for antibiotics. It is extremely important to keep the wound clean to avoid infection.”

The muscles flick in my jaw. I give her a stiff nod, and she runs to the other side of the room, where her pad is and begins to scribble the script down. When she hands it to us, she bows before swiftly leaving Mila and I.

“Now we can,” I tell Mila as a tremor works through her body, “You did so well, angelo mio. Better than any man I have seen get shot.”

She chuckles bashfully at me, but I am being honest.

Mila faced not only being shot but returning to the hospital of her nightmares, all on the same day and is still holding herself together. She is brave, and strong, and so fucking admirable. She’s going to be one hell of a mother to our children one day.

What the hell?

I blink a couple of times. I have always been extremely careful where and how I put my dick into women. The last thing I wanted was to get someone pregnant, yet as I look down at my raven-haired beauty, her hair awry, and her hair tie on my wrist, my world tilts on its axis as I realize how badly I want to see her swell and be the most incredible mom to ever walk this Earth.

As Mila sits up, her petite breasts filling her small bra on full display, it makes it hard to focus. I strip my shirt and pop it over Mila’s head. She goes to argue, but I narrow my eyes and shake my head. She can argue about anything else, but walking around the hospital topless is not an option. She’s mine.

I groan inwardly at the thought of owning and being owned by the very soul that exists below the surface.

I gently help guide her injured arm through the sleeve, planning all the ways I am going to shred this shirt to make her wince in pain when her stitches brush the fabric.

“Let’s go home,” I murmur, and where Mila may think I mean the townhouse in East Vegas, I really mean my father’s mansion, and our future home.

Fuck it, if she wants a different one, then we are selling the mansion, and I will build her a dream home from the foundation up.

We walk down the hospital hallway, Adriano and Caleb following us towards the exit. The walk is slow as Mila takes in the hospital around us while holding the elbow of the arm that was shot.

“Caleb, get Mila a sling,” I demand, and he peels off toward a nurse’s station.

“It’s okay, I’m fine,” Mila says, though she winces when she attempts to let her arm hang.

“No. If you need something, demand it. Don’t try to brave through this to avoid burdening me or my men.” The firm tone in my voice leaves no room for argument.

Mila nods, “Okay… My arm is a little sore.”

“Fill this prescription.” I hand Adriano the script the doctor wrote, “Watch the pharmacist while he does it. It comes from a fresh, sealed bottle. You inspect each and every pill, make sure there is no funny business.”

Adriano tosses me the keys to the SUV before heading to the pharmacy near the hospital’s front entrance. Keeping my palm firmly on her back, I shield her from the long stretch of windows with my own body until we have safely made it to the other end.

Mila stops abruptly, her eyes pausing on one of the signs in the hallway. The sign reads Dr. Mitch Alverez, Emergency/Obstetrics and Gynecology. The office door is open, and a man sits at his desk, typing away on a computer.

“Mila?” I raise my brow, and her soft blue eyes meet mine. There are flashes of panic warring with shock as her eyes flick around my face.