Page 19 of Break For Me
I don't pick up the gun. I don't walk out the door.
I sit in the chair and watch his chest rise and fall.
I wait for the next thing to break.
Chapter Six
ROCCO
Pain wakes me.
It isn’t sharp. Sharp would be a mercy. This is a heavy, structural throb that starts deep in the marrow of my bones and bleeds outward until my entire left arm feels like it’s being crushed in a vice.
My left hand is a planet of hurt. It has its own gravity, a constant, crushing weight that drags every nerve in my system down toward the raw, stitched center of my palm.
I open my eyes. The ceiling is low, pressing down on me. Water stains have mapped out a continent of black rot on the plaster, the edges curling like parched skin. A single bulb hangs from a frayed wire, dead and useless. Grey, watery light stabs through the gaps of a wool blanket tacked over the window.
I try to sit up. My body is a sack of wet sand.
Cold metal bites into my right wrist.
The sound hits me a split second after the sensation—a sharp, mechanicalclinkthat echoes loudly in the quiet room. It cuts through the thick fog in my skull and drops me violently into the present.
I yank my arm. The chain rattles. The flimsy cot frame shudders and groans under my weight.
Handcuffs. My own. I keep them in the inside pocket of my jacket for situations that need a more personal touch than a zip tie. The left cuff is clamped tightly on my wrist. The right is threaded through the rusted metal crossbar of the cot and locked to itself.
The son of a bitch chained me to my own bed.
Rage hits me like a kick to the teeth. My vision narrows to a red point of white-hot heat. I pull again. I put two hundred and forty pounds of pure, unadulterated fury into the pull.
The cheap aluminum frame screams in protest. The metal bends, whining as it deforms under the stress. The heavy canvas of the cot tears at the grommet near my head. One more good pull and the crossbar will snap entirely. I can feel the molecular structure of the cheap metal starting to give way under the force.
I stop.
My left hand is a clean, white cocoon of fresh gauze. It looks professional. The dressing runs from my knuckles to my wrist in a tight, even figure-eight pattern. My forearm is wrapped, too. I can feel the distinct tug of fresh sutures underneath, the thread pulling at skin that is swollen and radiating enough heat to cook a meal on.
He fixed me. The doctor. He cut into Killian, then he cut into me, then he treated me like a rabid dog in a kennel.
I force myself to breathe. The air in the small room is stale and close. It tastes of old wood and the sharp, chemical edge of antiseptic. My ribs grind with every single inhalation, a fresh reminder of the hallway fight. That entire night is a violent, chaotic blur of impact and blood.
My head pounds, a rhythmic hammering against the inside of my temples. My body feels like it was dismantled by a mechanic who didn't know how to put the pieces back together.
The door groans open on dry, rusted hinges.
Dr. Adrian Sterling walks in.
He’s carrying a glass of water and a single white pill. He looks worse than he did when I snatched him from his apartment. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, stained dark with blood that has already begun to turn brown. Mine. Killian’s. Probably a mix of both.
His glasses are crooked. The left arm is bent, sitting at an awkward angle on his face. His dark hair is a mess, strands falling across a forehead marked by a deep, exhaustion-driven pallor. The hollows under his eyes look like dark, sunken bruises. He’s been awake too long. He’s running on fumes and whatever cold logic is still sparking in his brain.
He stops in the doorway. His pale eyes drop to the bent metal of the cot and the chain pulled taut against my wrist. He looks at it with that flat, measuring gaze that makes my knuckles itch.
"You were delirious," he says. His voice is a low, steady drone, completely devoid of any vibration. "You grabbed my wrist hard enough to damage the radial nerve. I restrained you for my own safety. I’m not interested in being part of your casualty count."
"Uncuff me."
"No."
