Spellbound - Cara Lynn Shultz [115]
I tried to shrug, but it was too painful. Sitting there, finally safe—the adrenaline rush was over and I felt everything. Every cut, every bruise, every last ache reverberated through me, intensifying each time it ricocheted around my body before settling in my increasingly throbbing head.
“Miss, is this yours? I noticed something shiny by the stairs and found this.” I looked up to find a female officer jogging over with something in her hand. I couldn’t make it out—my vision was getting a little hazy.
It felt like an ice-cold claw was squeezing my heart. No. Please don’t be my necklace. It wasn’t going to end. It would never end. The curse was going to come for me, keep coming, until it killed me. Until it killed us.
Terrified, I looked at Brendan, who just kissed my forehead gently.
“We’ll get through this,” he promised.
“Is this yours?” the officer asked again. I looked down at her hand to see her holding my badly scratched cell phone.
“Um, yeah,” I breathed, my voice and my body trembling with relief. “That’s my phone.”
Seeing me shake, the medic had me lie down on the gurney for a moment—but I sat upright again, ready to continue arguing about the officer who helped me pull Brendan up. But as soon as I sat up, I fell right back down with a searing headache and pain in my side. I felt every single injury acutely, as if my senses were hyperaware.
I didn’t realize I was moaning until the medic spoke. “See, it’s a good thing we’re taking you to the hospital,” she said, and I was dimly aware that I was on the move; the stretcher was being pushed down the winding pathway toward the waiting ambulance. Brendan walked—or hobbled, rather—alongside me, holding my hand. He insisted on going in the ambulance with me.
“Officer Lynott, what’s happening with Anthony?” Brendan asked.
“We have an APB out on him with your description but that’s a pretty big drop. I don’t think we’ll find him. Well, we won’t find him on land,” Officer Lynott said pointedly.
I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, which actually hurt.
“We can give you something for the pain,” the medic offered, and I just nodded, keeping my eyes closed; the glare from the lampposts was like a searing burn into my head. Once we were loaded in the ambulance, I felt a needle jab at my arm—and everything went blissfully black.
Narrow slits of light stabbed at a throbbing pain in my head. That pain intensified as my eyes opened more.
Someone gripped my right hand. I squeezed back, ignoring the pain. The human contact felt too good.
I tried to force my eyes to adjust to the glaring light in the room. It was like the light was trying to stab me in the brain.
“The light…hurts,” I mumbled. The hand disappeared, and a moment later, the room was darker. The hand returned.
“Is that better?” It was rough with exhaustion, but I knew that voice. I opened my eyes more easily this time.
“Brendan?” I turned my head toward where the hand was—and he was there, relief and worry fighting for control of his handsome features. From what I could see of it, at least—I was having some trouble focusing.
“You’re okay?” I wheezed, reaching out to touch his face, which I now noticed was pretty badly cut up. He had a split lip, the beginnings of a black eye and a few cuts on his cheekbone, chin and forehead. Brendan just turned his head to meet my hand, kissing my raw palm and holding my hand against his cheek.
“Aw, you’re all banged up,” I said, stroking his face.
“Me?” He snorted, brushing my bangs back off my face. The gesture felt good—normal, even.
“Me? You,” I mumbled, a little woozy.
“You got the good painkillers, I see,” he observed, chuckling.
“Mmm.” I nodded in agreement. “Are you okay?”
“I’m okay, Em,” Brendan said gently. “Cracked rib, some cuts and bruises, but nothing permanent.”
“It looks like it hurts.”
“I’ve been in fistfights before,” Brendan said dismissively. “I’m just worried about you.”
“What’s the damage?” I asked, vaguely remembering some kind of scan from a few hours ago. The last time I was in a hospital bed, I had a broken wrist and a line