Page 120 of Until Joy

July's expression darkened. “That's ridiculous. Wesley Silver, you fix this right now.”

“July, I can't just⁠—”

“I don't want to hear it.” July's voice carried the authority she used with difficult pet owners. “That woman has been through hell, and the man she loves is lying in a hospital bed. You figure out a way to get her in there, or I will.”

The force of July's anger on my behalf broke something loose in my chest. Tears I'd been holding back since the phone call to Z spilled over.

“Please,” I whispered. “I just need to see him. I need to know he's okay.”

Wes looked between his wife's determined face and my tear-streaked one, then sighed. “Let me talk to the nurse in charge, or a doctor.”

Twenty minutes later, we stood outside Graham's room while a nurse explained his condition. Three broken ribs. Severe concussion. Dislocated left shoulder. Cuts and bruises covering most of his body. He was lucky to be alive.

Lucky.

The word felt like a mockery.

“He's sedated for the pain,” the nurse continued, “but he's been asking for Joy since he arrived.”

My hand trembled as I reached for the door handle. Nothing could have prepared me for the sight that greeted me.

Graham lay propped against white pillows, his face a map of bruises and cuts. His left arm was immobilized in a sling, and I could see the bulk of bandages wrapped around his ribs. But his eyes were open, and the moment he saw me, his entire face transformed.

“Thank God,” he breathed.

It was as if I floated to his side of the bed, my hands hovering over him, afraid to touch anything for fear of causing more pain.

“You're okay.” His good hand found mine, squeezing with surprising strength. “Tell me you're okay.”

“I'm fine.” The words came out as a sob. “Graham, look at you. You're the one who's hurt.”

“This?” He gestured weakly at his bandaged form. “This is nothing. Just a few bumps and bruises.”

“Bumps and bruises?” I stared at him in disbelief. “You have three broken ribs and a concussion.”

“Could have been worse.”

A doctor in scrubs appeared in the doorway, chart in hand. “Mr. Wallace, I'm Dr. Martinez. How are you feeling?”

“Ready to go home.”

Dr. Martinez smiled. “I'm afraid that's not happening for at least three days. The head injury was serious, and we need to monitor you for any complications.”

Graham's jaw tightened. “Doctor, I need to protect my girlfriend. There's someone after her, and I can't do that from a hospital bed.”

“Mr. Wallace, you can barely sit up without assistance. You're not protecting anyone until that brain of yours has time to heal.”

The finality in the doctor's voice left no room for argument.

“I'm staying,” I said before anyone could object.

“Joy, you don't have to⁠—”

“I'm staying.” I squeezed Graham's hand. “I'm not leaving you.”

The hospital chair had clearly been designed by someone who'd never spent a night sleeping in one. After night two I was longing for Graham’s recliner. The crick in my neck was no joke. Gray morning light filtered through the blinds, and Graham's steady breathing told me he was still asleep.

Voices in the hallway caught my attention. Familiar voices.