Page 120 of The Diamond in the Rough

I pushed an eyelid open.

And immediately shut it because the light in the room was far too bright and sent stabbing pain through my head. I must have made some sort of sound, because I felt a cool hand on my arm.

“Rayn?” I immediately recognized Ward’s voice

I pushed out a grunt of acknowledgment.

I heard someone walking—not Ward, obviously—and then I heard the very particular sound of venetian blinds being closed.

I tried pushing open one eye again. It still hurt, but it was better.

I carefully turned my head to see Mason standing by the window. I swallowed, my throat scratchy. “Thanks,” I croaked.

“No problem,” the big orc replied, offering a soft smile. “I remember how much waking up post-surgery sucked.”

I frowned, then nodded—a very slight nod. He’d been shot working on one of Beyond the Veil’s cases. “Did I need surgery?” I asked.

“On your arm, yes,” Ward answered.

“And a few units of blood,” Mason put in, settling in one of the room’s probably-uncomfortable chairs. “That was a nasty compound break.”

I grimaced down at my own arm, noting that it was not only held in a sling, but covered in plaster that had some metal bits sticking out of it.

“They’ll take some of that out,” Ward told me. “But that won’t be nearly as complicated.”

I frowned again. I didn’t really like the idea of having another surgery. But I assumed they weren’t going to let me run around with intensive hardware sticking out of my arm.

“It’s an external fixator,” Mason supplied. “There’s likely to be internal hardware, as well, but that they won’t need to remove.” He offered me another small smile. “And removing the fixator bolts probably won’t require you to go under again—just an out-patient appointment.”

I looked at him, impressed and a little confused about how a historian knew so much about surgical procedures.

“Mason used to be an EMT,” Ward told me, no doubt seeing my confusion.

“That, and I had a friend in high school who had one due to a nasty collarbone break,” Mason replied. “And I’m nosy.”

Mason had leftto do something with or for Jackson—I wasn’t completely sure—leaving me with Ward, who was filling out a crossword with me. I like crosswords, and do them online sometimes when there is nothing else to do at the office.

Ward had bought me a book of them, along with one of those fruit bouquets with cut fruit on sticks, and we were both eating fruit—with permission from the nurse—as we worked through the crosswords.

“Seven letters, frightened fowl?” Ward looked up. “With the question mark.”

I hated the ones that were puns or had question marks on them, since it relied on me being able to understand some secondary meaning or implication that, most of the time, I didn’t understand.

“It’s a fucking chicken,” came Hart’s voice from the doorway. “Hey, kid. How’re you feeling?”

I offered him a smile. “Okay, considering,” I replied. Considering the compound fracture, blood loss, and the hypothermia the doctor had explained I’d come in with. He’d checked my vitals, asked me multiple questions, checked my fingers and toes, and so on before informing me that I was doing very well, considering that my bodytemperature had been around ninety-three when I’d been brought in.

“Yeah, shit, kid. You look a lot better now than you did down in that shithole, though.”

“I feel a lot better than I did down there,” I informed him.

Hart grabbed Mason’s chair, turned it around, and straddled it, crossing his arms over the chair’s back. “So this is where you tell me everything that happened, and I tell you what little I’m allowed to share. Okay?”

I nodded. I was pretty sure I didn’t actually have a choice, but it was nice that Hart was asking and not telling.

“Start with how they grabbed you.”

I told him everything I could remember, from when they’d cornered me in the alley to being half-conscious in the van to my showdown with Garraway. I stumbled a little when I had to tell him—and Ward—that I’d killed Mulrooney.