Page 27 of My Dark Prince
I let my eyelids flutter open again. A sea of pastel blue blurred before me. I blinked until the walls stopped moving and inventoried the rest of my body. Tubes snaked around my arms and chest, binding me to a large bed. Monitors bracketed my head. Needles poked my veins on both sides, taped tight with transparent film.
Syringes made me nauseous. I knew. Not from memory, but through the unpleasant, hot sensation drip-drip-dripping into my stomach.
Obviously, I’d landed myself in a hospital. In America, judging by the signs written in American English.
When did I move to the States?
I vaguely remembered taking a flight, but I couldn’t remember when, why, or who with.
There was a lot I couldn’t remember.
My head throbbed, my thoughts swimming against a current of sticky goo. I reached for my forehead, patting what felt like gauze wound tight around my skull. Tendrils of gold-red locks ivied my fingers, matted with blood. My heart lodged in my throat, struggling to beat.
What happened to me?
Think, think, think.
A jumbled mess of thoughts muddled my mind. I tried to sort through them, forming mental columns of what I knew as facts and what I guessed in my head:
Things I knew for a fact:
– I was in a hospital room.
– It was nighttime. (The clock read 4 a.m., and pitch black stretched across the window.)
– I was no longer a teenager, but a woman. (Exhibit A: Boobs.)
– I was involved in some kind of accident. (Car crash, sky diving fiasco, a tumble through a meat grinder, judging by the extent of the pain.)
Things I guessed to be true:
– I was in the U.S.
– I was no longer in contact with my parents.
– I was suffering from memory loss.
The last part sent my pulse skyrocketing. Huge chunks of my memory left gaping holes in my skull. I rummaged in my brain for my latest recollection, ignoring the acute, throbbing pain that sliced through it like a knife. A hotel. I remembered a hotel. A beautiful one. Though I couldn’t remember what I was doing there or who I was with.
Panic clawed up my stomach, grabbing ahold of my throat. The door to the room pushed open, and a man in a crisp white coat strolled inside, swinging a clipboard. A doctor.
“Oh. Ms. Auer.” He offered a warm smile. “You’re up.” He didn’t look surprised by that fact.
Maybe your injury isn’t that bad?
I noticed that he’d called me Ms. Auer. Did that mean I wasn’t married? I definitely did not remember getting married.
I attempted to scoot up to a sitting position and regretted it immediately. A groan slipped past my lips. Everything hurt too much.
“No, please. I’ll come to you. You’re hooked up on a lot of painkillers and will probably take a few hours before you’re good to walk.”
“I’m not dead?”
It slipped out, but I had to check.
“Not dying.” He smiled, stopping in front of my bed. “I’m Doctor Cohen, and I was here when they rushed you in a few hours ago. How are you feeling?”
“Like hell, but somehow worse.”
