The left side of his face is red, blistered from the road. There’s a bandage wrapped around the top of his head, and dried blood along his hairline.
I cover my mouth as I stand there, staring at him. He seems almost lifeless in the hospital bed. And even though I feel betrayed and foolish from his lies, I can’t stop the pain that sears through me, settling in my bones, from seeing him so helpless.
He’s doing remarkably well, considering, but it’ll be a very long recovery.
Internal bleeding. CAT scan on his brain. His helmet came off . . .
He could’ve died.
And what if he had?
I walk toward the bed quietly, still unsure of what I’m doing.
What if the last things I said to him were hurtful? How would I feel if this hospital visit was different?
I’m not sure I would ever forgive myself.
Because, even if my heart is shattered, I can’t stop loving him.
It doesn’t work that fast, losing the love you harbor in your heart for someone. It takes a while for that to fade away.
I close the distance between us. Seeing him like this has made me realize one thing: I’m not sure I’ll ever get over this man.
I take a seat on his hospital bed and reach for one of his hands, but they’re both scraped up, bloody from the accident. I don’t want to hurt him, so I sit there and stare at him, at the rhythm of his breathing.
In and out.
In and out.
I might be broken-hearted.
I might not have any intention of being with this man.
But God, I’m grateful.
I’m so grateful he’s okay.
Chapter Twenty-Three
PIKE
“I’m quite good, thank you,” I hear a familiar voice say.
“If you need anything, just ring,” a feminine voice says before the click of a door shutting sounds through the space.
A pounding headache vibrates as I attempt to open my eyes.
What the actual fuck is going on?
Throat dry, I try to talk, but nothing comes out, and it feels like a Herculean feat to open my eyes.
Everything in my body hurts. I can’t move my fucking leg and the entire left side of my face feels like it’s on fire. Jesus Christ.
I wrack my brain for what could’ve happened. What could’ve . . .
Cora.
Her beautiful face flashes through my mind, but instead of seeing love in those grey eyes I’ve grown addicted to, I see them full of tears. Why is she crying? Why . . .
Fuck.
It hits me like a ton of bricks.
My pa. The townhouse. The truth.
The lies.
Her walking out.
Me chasing after her on my bike.
Sirens.
Pain . . .
“Cora,” I say, my voice little more than a squeak.
“Ah, I wish I could oblige, but unfortunately, it’s just me, your faithful brother.”
Killian?
With one last attempt, I pry open my eyes and blink a few times before Killian’s face comes into view. His voice might sound teasing, but his appearance is anything but jovial. Normally, my well-polished brother is dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit, hair properly styled, and a clean-shaven face, but right now he’s the complete opposite of what I’m used to seeing. Dressed in jeans and a hoodie, his face is unshaven and his hair is askew, while his eyes are weary with uncertainty.
“I really like what you’ve done with your face,” Killian says. “Very earthy. The dried blood is a nice touch.”
“Fuck,” I croak and then cough a few times. Killian offers me a cup of water with a straw and I take a sip, wetting my mouth and throat. After a few sips, I ask, “What the bloody hell?”
He chuckles. “It’s called riding a motorbike during a winter storm, you numpty.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the nausea to ease. “What’s injured?”
“Well, your dick is okay, if that’s what you’re wondering, but your pride, yeah, not sure that’s ever going to be resurrected.”
“Killian . . . please,” I beg.
I hear him shift in his seat and his voice grow closer as he says, “Road rash on your face, neck, hands, and leg. Five stitches on your forehead, twenty in your arm. Broken wrist and broken tibia. If you weren’t wearing your helmet, you’d be dead. It flew off while you were being tossed around, but it saved your life.”
“Christ.” I open my eyes, and when I see the despair on my brother’s face, I attempt to lighten the mood. “But my dick is okay?”
He chuckles and then lets out a heavy breath. “Fuck, Pike. I’ve been a goddamn wreck. If you weren’t so pathetic right now, I would be punching you in the bloody face. But, you know, since it’s Christmas and half your face is torn off anyway, I’ll give you a break.”