Page 98 of Played By Design

More footsteps in the corridor, and Luca, one of the crew’s muscles, peeks in, says nothing, and leaves.

Kain’s grip on my hand loosens as his eyelids droop. “Did’ey get th’car?”

I squeeze his fingers. “I’ll buy you an even better one.”

One with a tracking system that will trap car thieves inside to be easy pickings for our crew.

Kain winces, his free hand starting toward his ribs before he catches himself.

“You need to stop talking,” I tell him. “Save your health points.”

A weak smile tugs at his mouth. “I’m fine, Bunny.”

His eyelids are already drooping again, the effort to speak costing him. He’s putting on a show for me, and I hate it.

The room closes in around me. Too many bodies, too little air.

I turn to everyone. “Out. He needs to rest.”

William frowns. “Reef⁠—”

“Now.”

Orien moves first. He touches two fingers to his temple in a silent salute to Kain and slips through the door.

William follows with less grace, shooting me a glare I ignore.

“We’ll be back in the morning,” Lev says, gathering the empty food wrappers.

He pauses at the door. “Call if you need anything. Either of you.”

The door closing behind them rouses Kain.

“Why’re you all th’way over there?” Kain pats the bed beside him. “Come’re.”

The narrow hospital mattress barely contains him, with rails on both sides, an IV line running into the back of his hand, monitor leads taped to his chest, and the call button clipped within reach of his good arm.

“If I climb in there, I’ll knock something loose.” I stay on my side of the railing. “You’ve got too many things attached to you.”

“Don’ care.” The words rasp from his throat. “Wan’ you⁠—”

The sentence slurs to a stop as his eyelashes flutter, then shut.

I sit back down and pull the chair as close as it will go. My knee bumps the bed frame, and I rest my forearm on the rail, my hand near his.

The door opens again, and a nurse enters with a clipboard. She checks Kain’s IV bag, marks the chart, and uses a syringe to administer a clear liquid through the line.

“Pain medication,” she says, catching my stare. “It will make him sleepy.”

Kain’s breathing slows, deepens, and his body goes lax.

I take his limp hand, holding on.

Morning arrives through the blinds in flat, gray stripes. The hospital sounds different in daylight, with more phones ringing, more carts rattling down corridors, and the night shift switching over.

I’ve been in and out of sleep for hours. My neck aches from sleeping upright in the chair, and my glasses have left dents on either side of my nose.

Kain sleeps on, his breathing even. The bruise along his jaw has deepened overnight to a sick purple-black.