Page 1 of Traded & Bred By the Bratva
CHAPTER 1
SIDNEY
As the numbers on the elevator display increase, I think about how much I hate hospitals. Not because of the smell. Most people complain about the smell.
The antiseptic. The bleach.
The strange, sterile scent that seems baked into every wall and floor tile. At first, it bothered me too. The way it would come home with me, impregnated into my clothes and my hair. And if I didn’t shower before catching a few hours of sleep, my pillow would reek of it in the morning. But I stopped noticing that weeks ago.
No, what I hate is the waiting. The endless, soul-sucking waiting.
Waiting for doctors. Waiting for updates. Waiting for test results.
Waiting for somebody to tell me my little brother is going to wake up.
I step out of the elevator on the fourth floor and tighten my grip on the paper coffee cup in my hand. The coffee is alreadylukewarm, but I don't have time to care. I don't have time for much of anything these days.
My sneakers squeak against the polished floor as I walk down the hallway. I know this route by heart now. My body moves on autopilot without me having to make decisions for it. I walk past the nurses' station and automatically nod to the three who are on staff. They don’t even check my visitor badge anymore. They know me on sight, and when they clock the two cups in my hands. They shoot me quick smiles laced with pity. I pretend I don’t notice how sorry they feel for me and continue past the family waiting room. Someone in there is crying. My tears dried up around the time the hospital scent stopped bothering me.
And then I arrive at the third door on the right. Room 417.
My stomach knots the moment I see the number. Every day, I tell myself this visit will be easier. Every day, I'm wrong.
I push open the door and swallow the lump in my throat that threatens to choke me every time I step into this room. "Hey, Ben."
My brother doesn't answer. He hasn't answered in six weeks. The room is quiet except for the steady rhythm of machines that monitor his still body’s functions.
He’s eyes are closed, so I know he can’t see me. I don’t even know if he can hear me, but I force a smile on my face because that makes it easier to keep my voice upbeat. "I brought coffee." I hold up two cups.
Ben can't drink coffee. He can't do anything right now, but not bringing him his own cup would be the same as giving up. And that is one thing I can’t do. I refuse to give up on my brother because he has never given up on me.
I set his cup on the windowsill and move toward the bed as I take a sip of mine.
The sight of him punches the air from my lungs, exactly the same way it did on day one. Right after the car accident. The cuts have healed, and the swelling has gone down, although his pale skin still shows faint traces of the bruises that painted his entire body in purple and black, before fading to sickly yellow and green.
His body has healed, but not his mind. The swelling on his brain was so severe that the doctors had to induce a medical coma, and they don’t know when they’ll be able to take him out of it. The bruises inside his skull are not cooperating the way the ones on his body did.
And so, my big brother is still asleep, while I pray he has healing dreams.
I put my cup on the table by his bed and sit down in the chair beside his bed. Wrapping both hands around his, I try to take comfort in that his skin is warm. His callused palms and fingers feel familiar, except that they are too relaxed, too limp. Everything about him is too still.
Ben was never still before. Not even when he slept.
We shared bunk beds as kids, and more than once, I’d wake up because his legs were drumming against the mattress as he ran a race or jumped on a trampoline in his dreams. And when he was awake, he took up so much space because he was always in motion, talking, laughing, teasing.
And that’s why the warm skin doesn’t make me feel better. Instead, it makes my chest ache because he should be awake. He should be complaining and arguing with me.
Demanding I sneak him proper food because hospital food tastes like cardboard.
Instead, all I get is silence.
I swallow hard. "You are seriously missing all the fun." Holding my breath, I stare at him, waiting, listening, hoping for a sign that he’s heard me.
Nothing.
Just like every other day, but I refuse to give up. “The weather’s turned warm,” I continue. “You’re missing the signs of spring you like so much. Including women wearing short-shorts, playing intramural volleyball in the park, your favorite.”
The door opens behind me and I turn to find Dr. Patel standing there. The expression on her kind face makes my stomach drop. I've become an expert at reading doctors.
