The scent of roses is my first clue. And then there’s the fresh air that tickles my nose, filling my lungs with sweetness. Outside birds are singing, the sound so loud, a window must be open.
Fresh air. Birdsong. Roses.
The hospital would never allow a window to open. So that means—
I’m not in a hospital anymore.
I open my eyes. The familiar sight of my castle bedroom greets me. For a moment, a burst of happiness rushes me.
Home. I’m home.
Until I realize that the room is only mostly familiar. There’s no antique four poster bed. Instead, I’m in a hospital bed heaped with white pillows and surrounded by medical equipment, including an IV pole standing by.
It wasn’t all a terrible nightmare. Battleman’s is really back.
But as I blink more, I take in the Persian rug covering the floor that’s always been there. The same bright sunlight, filtered through the same huge windows I’ve always loved. One of the windows is open at the bottom and birds hop on the sill just beyond the screen. No wonder I can hear them so well. I’m at the castle and the birds are singing.
A shadow falls across my bed and I startle.
“Daphne,” Logan looms over me. He looks a thousand times better than when I last saw him kneeling by the hospital bed. He’s clean-shaven and dressed in a crisp white shirt tailored to his wide shoulders. His voice is deep and soothing. “You’re awake.”
“Logan?”
“Shhh,” he rubs salve on my lips. I can’t stop myself from licking them—the salve tastes horrible but my lips are all healed. Logan tsks and reapplies the balm. “Are you cold? It got a little stuffy in here, so I opened a window. Spring’s come early.”
I blink at him, waiting for my thoughts to catch up. “You moved me?”
If I really think hard, I think I remember something about all the doctors gathered around and Logan telling me he was bringing me home. But it seems like a distant dream. I didn’t necessarily think it was real at the time. I hate nothing more than hospitals, though, so I’m glad to be out of there.
And I’m with Logan and I love him and he loves me and we’re home finally. Maybe it’ll be different this time.
Maybe it’s true what they say, and anything is possible as long as you have true love. I look at his beloved face, vulnerable and free of that terrible mask he used to wear.
We’ve come through so much. Can we make it through this, too?
“Mhhmm.” He picks up a blood pressure cuff, fastens it around my arm, and takes my blood pressure like it’s the most normal thing in the world for us to do together. I frown and my blood goes cold in a way that has nothing to do with my illness.
How many times did I witness this exact same scene play out? My father bent over my mother’s hospital bed, set up in their bedroom? Taking her blood pressure, her temperature, or drawing blood. I’ve seen what it looks like when what was once love becomes clinical. How a series of triumphs and failures with every lab test can become an entire marriage.
Still, out of habit, I count the seconds along with him as the blood pressure cuff releases pressure.
When he finishes, he nods, removes the cuff, and leans in to kiss the top of my head—the top of my head mind you, not my lips—before going to the medical stand to enter the results on the computer. Then again, why would he want to kiss my lips when I’ve got this gross tasting salve on them? I can’t even describe the despair that hits me at that thought. Because I can only imagine how terrible the rest of me looks.
From what I can see of the screen, all my medical records are there.
Logan moved me from the hospital. Permanently. Holy shit.
“Um, Logan...why did you move me?”
“The hospital and I had a difference of opinion on your course of treatment.”
“A difference of opinion,” I repeat.
“Yes. You know what? It’s a little too breezy in here. I’m going to shut the window.”
And he strolls away. Before he shuts the lower section, he picks up a scoop from a big birdseed bag, opens the screen and empties the scoop on the sill. Then he removes the screen and closes the window. The sound of birds is muffled, but I see them fluttering to the sill to eat the seed.
The absurdity of it strikes me. Is this real? Do I really have birds chirping at my window like I’m in a Disney movie?
“Yeah.” He answers, and I realize I said all that out loud. Logan straightens, a shy grin tugging the corner of his mouth. “I thought it might be nice for you to watch them. I ordered a few different feeders, but haven’t had a chance to install them. Apparently different birds eat different kinds of seeds and—”
I squint at him. “Who are you and what did you do with Logan Wulfe?” Maybe it’s not so surprising that Logan has a huge nurturing streak. He is a doctor. And he’s just… Logan. The man who held me all night long when I grieved for my mother. The man who never pushed me before I was ready and when I was, guided me so carefully every step of the way.
“It’s me, baby.” His white teeth flash and heat streaks through me. It’s weird to feel turned on in a hospital bed, but my body always reacts to Logan this way. I’m sick, not dead. “Are you feeling comfortable?”
I’ve been so busy processing my shock at my new surroundings, I forgot to assess the state of my body. I move my limbs tentatively. Less weakness than before.
“Um, yeah.”
“Good.” He settles into a chair at my side. One of the huge armchairs that’s more of a throne. It’s twin is gone from the usual place by the fireplace. That’s not the only change—there’s no fire lit in the grate, and there’s a new flat screen TV that adorns the wall above the mantle.
Logan follows my gaze to the new flat screen. “I want to make sure you don’t get bored.”
“I can’t believe you did all this. You moved me from the hospital.”
I stare at the screen, still feeling too many emotions. I can’t seem to settle on one before another is swooping in. Gratitude that he moved me. Anxiety. Fear. Love. So much love. Which makes the fear scarier than any I’ve ever felt before.
“No harm done. You slept through it, and through the night. I may have given you an extra dose of painkillers to make sure you didn’t feel the transition.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Yes,” he agrees with no hesitation. “I’m going to get you well, Daphne.”
My eyes start stinging. I blink them rapidly, turning my face away from Logan to hide my expression.
I know what’s ahead of me. Endless tests, needles, charts. Days and nights in this bed where every second feels like a millennium. “I didn’t want you to see me like this. Weak and pathetic.”
I wanted to pretend…that there was a chance it wouldn’t come back. That I’d actually beat this when I was a kid and wouldn’t ever have to fight it again—
“Daphne—” I hear a rustle and then Logan’s there standing by my side, his big hand sliding into my hair, coaxing me to face him. “Look at me.”
My chest is filled with boulders. I want to turn away but he won’t let me.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice deep and compelling. The timbre of The Master. His heavy brows oversee his stern expression, but his huge hands on my face are gentle. “You are not weak. I won’t allow you to say or think that. Just look at your charts. What you went through, what you survived...and still you’re full of love. Full of life.”