I opened the lid, put the straw inside, and placed my hand behind his head, lifting it up slightly. I brought the straw to his mouth and watched while his throat worked as he swallowed.
When he was finished, I set the bottle down, letting my other hand slide away for his head, his short, dark hair soft in my fingers. I held his hand again, feeling like maybe I was making a difference, helping him with his pain.
For the next twenty minutes, he was in and out, waking up and moaning as if in more pain before passing back out. People came in and out during that time, checking on him, Kimber giving him meds. I noticed antibiotics and pain medication.
I moved back when they were here, getting out of the way, standing in the corner, and letting them do their thing. But then when they left, I was right there with Wilder, holding his hand, telling him things I wished somebody would tell me if I was in his situation.
And that’s where I was now, several hours later, still kneeling beside his bed, my head resting on the mattress, one hand twined with his, and my other hand running gently up and down his forearm. I traced the tattoos that lined his skin, mesmerized by them.
Whenever somebody came in, they didn’t mention me being close to him or holding him. The men acted like I wasn’t even there, and Kimber and Amelia gave me sympathetic looks.
I didn’t even understand what I was doing with Wilder or why I cared so much. But I couldn’t stop myself no matter how much it made sense to.
I closed my eyes and started singing the only song I ever remembered my mother humming to me. It was the only “motherly” thing she’d ever done, and even those moments were rare and always when she was shitfaced after stumbling in from the bar. But I still cherished those times, latched on to them as a hopeful little girl.
So I kept singing, not for me or for those out-of-the-blue, drunken memories of my mother, but for this man I didn’t know, this man who I’d never heard his voice clearly, or even knew the color of his eyes. He wasn’t alone, had many people who clearly loved him, yet here I was, wanting desperately to make him feel better.
Because there were so many times I wished someone had done this for me.
I stopped singing and just stared at his hand twined with mine.
“Your voice...”
I snapped my head up and was staring into Wilder’s dark eyes. My heart was racing, my voice gone, so I couldn’t even attempt to reply.
“Don’t stop singing,” he whispered, sounding so hoarse. “Your voice is so pretty.” He closed just eyes and groaned softly, clearly in pain. “It makes me feel better.”
“I’ll get someone,” I whispered and was about to stand, but he tightened his hold on my hand, causing me to still.
“I’m fine. Please don’t leave.” He cleared his throat and grimaced, and I could see he was trying to be strong.
I sank back to my knees, our hands still wrapped around each other, my gaze locked on his face.
This can’t be normal, feeling something this strongly for someone I just met. Common sense told me that over and over again, repeating in my head like a broken record. But I just didn’t care. I liked how I felt for him, this man who I knew nothing about, this man who looked at me right now like I was the sun and he’d been deprived of it his entire life.
He gave my hand another squeeze and asked me to start singing again. And that’s just what I did. I sang softly, only loud enough for him to hear.
For his ears only.
And it was when his eyes closed again and he fell back asleep that I felt my heart give a mighty jerk in my chest. It was only then that I took a stuttering breath and sat back on my haunches, staring at his face, which was relaxed in sleep, that I realized I was in far more trouble than being kept here and held against my will.
I was in far more trouble, because my heart was being compromised by this man.
Chapter Twelve
Wilder
I woke up, and for the first time, I noticed I didn’t feel that excruciating pain take my breath. I still fucking hurt, no doubt about that, but I was able to breathe without clenching my teeth.
The next thing I realized, which seemed even more important, was she wasn’t by me, this unknown woman who calmed me and gave me solace in the darkness.
Alone, not feeling her warmth, not feeling her touch or hearing her voice as she sang to me, caused me a different kind of discomfort. Had I dreamt her?
Fuck. I was tired in more ways than one, so that was pretty damn plausible.
I closed my eyes, as nothing made sense, but then everything filtered through, flashes of what happened, the back-alley deal with Frankie and the tweaker, being shot, the pain. So much pain.
Then different flashes of memories came through, things that made me feel a hell of a lot better.
Her smell.
Her touch.
Just... her.
Maybe my mind conjured her up so I could cope, so I could get through this nightmare.
Fuck, that thought depressed me.
I blinked my eyes open and stared at the ceiling. Everything was quiet around me, the steady beat of my heart the only thing I clearly made out. I didn’t want to move, not just yet, not sure if the pain would have me passing out again. I did a mental check on my body, moving my fingers and toes, inhaling slowly before exhaling at the same pace. The latter had discomfort shooting through me like a motherfucker, but that was to be expected. I lifted my head slightly and looked down at my chest, seeing the white bandage wrapped around my bare torso.
I had an IV hooked in my arm, and the memories, the in-and-out flashes of light and sound, a picture of Kimber working on me, the sound of my brothers worrying over whether I’d die or live, all came flooding back.
I looked around the room, realizing they put me in the guest bedroom, which made sense, since it was the closest to the front door. I could tell by the setting sun that it was late in the day. How long had I been out? It felt like I’d been lying here damn near forever.
I surveyed more of the room for any inclination on what happened since I’d been out. There was a tray sitting on the bedside table next to the loveseat, the plate atop it having only a few pieces of food left, an empty glass, and a water bottle sitting beside that. That clearly wasn’t for me, seeing as my belly grumbled at the thought of food.
The sounds of water running in the bathroom and then turning off had my body tightening, which then made the pain increase. But all that was easily pushed to the side at the very real possibility that maybe my mystery woman wasn’t a fabrication at all.
I held my breath as the door opened… as the light was turned off… and then she stepped out. And at the first glance of her, I sucked in a sharp breath. Even though I couldn’t see her face clearly, she was so fucking beautiful I actually found myself lifting my hand and placing it on my chest, afraid my heart would stop. Never had anyone had this kind of impact on me.
Flashes of images of her kneeling at the bed, holding me, touching me, singing to me, played over and over in my head. She was looking at the floor, and I allowed myself the privilege of memorizing every part of her before she realized.
I remembered her, the memories I had from when I opened my eyes those few times very clear in my mind. This was her. She needed to come closer so I could smell her sweet scent, so I could feel her hand on me and know that it was indeed her.