48. Hannah

Hannah

T here is an incessant beeping somewhere around me.

The first of my senses to return is my hearing and that beep settles a migraine in my forehead that feels like a woodpecker is beating the inside of my skull.

The second in my sense of scent.

The hospital.

—Explains the beeping.

The last time I woke up in a “medical facility” it wasn’t any fun.

Now, when I open my eyes, it’s to the dimly lit room of an actual hospital, complete with every monitor known to man.

My vision is blurry, but as it returns and I take in the room around me, my heart nearly stops in my chest.

Mason.

He’s asleep, his arm draped over his stomach on what looks like the tiniest cot in the world. He’s facing me as if he fell asleep watching me. Like I might disappear again. He looks so handsome, though the dark shadows around his eyes tell me he’s exhausted and guilt washes through me.

But is he real?

Did I really survive that?

Carefully, I attempt to sit up in bed, only to collapse back to what has to be the most comfortable mattress I’ve ever slept on.

Maybe I’m just tired.

I try again and this time, pain blooms from a spot on my shoulder and I grunt, but it’s nothing compared to the screeching of the alarm that goes off somewhere in the room.

Well, fuck.

“ Hannah . . .” Mason’s voice is gruff and thick with sleep and before I know it, he’s by my side, laying me back on the bed.

Those hands definitely feel real.

“You can’t get up, baby,” he murmurs, voice dark and sleep-riddled. Mason’s sleepy voice has always been my favorite thing, though I haven’t told him that.

“I’m sorry.” I wince at the sound of my own croaky voice. I sound like I swallowed a bucket of sand. Luckily, Mason is there with one of those fancy hospital cups full of water and I drink it down thirstily.

Jesus, how long have I been out?

“Twelve hours,” Mason murmurs, eyes glinting almost black in the darkness of the hospital room.

Did I say that out loud?

“I have to pee,” I grumble, my cheeks flaming. How the fuck am I supposed to get out of bed if it wails like a banshee every time I do?

“I’ll take you.”

“That’s okay,” I start, but he’s already slipping his hands under my legs to help me stand.

I’ll admit, once I’m on my feet, I’m glad for his help. Funnily enough, I feel like a baby deer, learning to walk for the first time.

I do my business and I have to tell you, peeing in front of Mason is a strange experience. He just doesn’t seem to care. It’s as if we’ve done this thousands of times.

By the time I’m done, and making the long journey with Mason and my IV pole back to the bed, a nurse is entering the room.

Doctor Dicky—yeah, that’s his name—looks me over, explaining a bunch of things I don’t understand. Everything passes by in a blur and I begin to wonder if I’m actually still asleep and this is just a dream.

Maybe I’m in a coma and this is their conversation over my lifeless body.

Maybe I never really made it out of that church.

I have so many questions. No answers, but also . . . no energy to ask, either. By the time the doctor is looking over my shoulder, I’m nodding off.

“Get some sleep,” Dr. Dicky says. “I’ll be back to check on you in a couple hours.”

I nod, though my head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.

The doctor leaves and then it’s just me and Mason. He sits down in the chair beside me and I stare at the x-ray still on the wall across the room.

“Explain.”

He lets out a deep breath and leans forward, his shoulders sagging as he leans on his knees.

“You were shot in the shoulder. Nothing major was hit, by some stroke of luck, but you’ll be sore for a while.”

“Did I have to have surgery?”

“Yes,” he murmurs. “The bullet was stuck in your arm. Luckily, it was just a .9mm, or it could have been worse.”

“Who did it?”

“Cortez. He’s dead.”

Something about the way his eyes flash when he says it sends a shiver down my spine.

“And . . . are you okay?”

He pauses as if he doesn’t know what to say. My chest aches and oddly enough, I don’t think it’s from the bullet wound in my shoulder.

“I . . . fuck .”

He gets up walking across the room to look out over the night sky of Los Angeles, his shoulders tense and his jaw hard as he scrubs a hand over his face.

“I’m sorry for leaving you. I didn’t want to. It . . . nearly broke me.” Tears burn in my eyes and exhaustion waves over me, despite my extra long nap. I just want to hold him. Have him hold me until I can’t think about anything else.

“Don’t ever fucking do some shit like that again,” he says throatily and a tear slips down my cheek.

I deserve that.

Carefully, I maneuver to the side up on the side of the bed, wanting nothing more than to go to him, but I know I can’t. Not with all the drugs coursing through my system.

“Okay.”

“Fuck,” he curses again under his breath and finally, he turns back to me. This time, I can see the despair on his face. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“I do—”

“No, you don’t. You’re the love of my fucking life, Hannah.” The room falls silent as he waits for me to protest. “You and me are it. Something happens to you, I’ll go to hell to find you and then I’ll drag you right the fuck back.”

“I love you, too,” I whisper, a tremor rolling through me and he bares his teeth. I didn’t think I’d ever get to hear him say those things again. I was sure that was the end.

I hold out my hand to him and though it hurts my shoulder, I keep it there.

“I thought I was never going to get to see you again. Please don’t be angry with me. You can tomorrow, just . . . right now . . .”

His eyes burn in the night, fury seeping off him. I shiver, but deep down, I know he’s not angry with me.

He’s angry because, for a moment, he was helpless.

Because Mason Carpenter is the farthest thing from helpless.

Begrudgingly, he takes a step forward and then, surprises the hell out of me and drops to his knees, his head falling to rest in my lap.

“That’s the problem,” he murmurs, turning his lips into my fingertips. “I can’t be angry with you. Even when I want to hate you, I fucking can’t.”

“I . . . want you to know. It wasn’t an easy decision. I made up my mind because I wanted to give you a chance at freedom.”

“Baby—” He nips the pad of my finger, eyes darkening when a shallow breath leaves my lips. “—you are my freedom. Anything happens now, we do it together. I refuse to fucking lose you again.”

“You won’t,” I promise, and this time, I mean it. “I’ll prove it to you.” My stomach clenches as visions of Ian flash through my mind. “I’m sorry about Ian.”

“Fuck Ian,” he grits, a snarl pulling on the corners of his lips.

“And Jenna . . . Did she make it?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs darkly his fingers slipping over a scabbed-over cut on my knee, presumably from the accident. “Though she’s in the same state Dawson was.”

“I didn’t want to kill him. He gave me no choice. I thought I was turning myself in to my mother, but he was taking me to the cartel. I had no idea they were one and the same.” My voice catches in my throat. “I had no idea it was all Melissa.”

“Tell me . . .” he rasps, “tell me what happened. Everything.”

I suck in a deep breath and he leans forward, laying me back against the pillow. When he moves to sit back in the chair, I keep hold of his hand and ignore the dull aching throb from my shoulder.

“Please?”

I can see the hesitation in his eyes while he tries to determine if he should give me what I want or if he should keep his distance.

“Mason,” I bite back the tears threatening to break free. “We both almost died.”

“ Fuck ,” he grits, succumbing. “Let me hold you. I need to feel you’re real.”

Gently, he slips his arms under me, sliding me over and resting on the edge of the bed beside me. We barely fit, but I don’t care. Not when his hand comes up and rests protectively over my stomach and not when I lean my head back against his shoulder.

I start off by telling him about the photograph. The threat against his life the day of the shooting. I tell him about how at war with myself, I was. How I couldn’t stomach the thought of leaving him, but I couldn’t bear the thought of him not in this world.

I tell him about the closet and Nurse Ratched. I tell him about Tweedledee and Tweedledum, Michael’s death and his threat, Mr. Legs, and the escort who he confirmed, was on our side.

“Christian Cross,” he murmurs darkly after I tell him about how he watched me pee. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Don’t,” I breathe and I can’t help but smile. “He was only acting the part.”

“Yeah,” Mason murmurs, though he doesn’t sound the least bit forgiving. “And your sister? Did you know she was there?”

I shake my head—a mistake because I’m feeling really, really sleepy and it only adds to the vertigo. “I didn’t . . . I thought surely she was gone. She made it look so . . .”

“Believable?” he finishes for me, his thumb tracing circles over the pulse point in my wrist. Almost as if he’s solidifying for himself that I’m alive. Tangible. “She had fucking everyone fooled. Don’t blame yourself for that.”

“For once, I’m not. Melissa was insane. All the best parts of her were snuffed out by our mother a long time ago . . . I was just blind to it.”

“The best parts of her were nothing compared to even the darkest parts of you, little doe.”

Gently, I reach up, slipping my palm over his face. I want to turn into him, slip inside his skin for a little while, and just breathe him in until I feel like I’ll never be without him again.

“How did you and Logan manage to sneak Parker out of prison?”

A twinkle of mischief flashes across his eyes and his fingers tighten on my throat. Despite everything , my stomach bottoms out with butterflies. “The media is saying two guards helped him escape. If I told you, I’d have to kill you and I plan on keeping you around for a very, very long time.”

My heart lurches in my chest. He’s so handsome it hurts.

“Easy, little doe,” he breathes, running his nose up the column of my throat, eliciting a shiver in response as the goosebumps pebble on my flesh. “You managed to walk away without anything majorly damaged, but you were still shot. You’ll be down for eight weeks.”

“You mean, no sex for eight weeks?”

He chuckles darkly.

“No sex for eight weeks,” he repeats.

“I don’t know if my boss will allow that. He can be kind of an ass.”

He smirks. “Sounds like a real dick. Imagine what eight long,” he pauses to slip his hand lower over my hip to brush over my inner thigh and my breath hitches “— long weeks are going to do.”

“Imagine how sweet it’s going to be when I’m able to return to my duties.”

His fingers slip against the goosebumps on my thighs and he growls low under his breath before removing his hand completely.

“Sweet is not the word I’d use to describe the things I’m going to do to you, little doe. Don’t think I’m not going to punish you.” He presses a kiss to my temple and then another to my cheek and finally, his fingers grip my chin and he gently turns my face to his. I slip my tongue against his, a small whimper climbing up my throat.

He growls against my lips, his fingers tightening on my chin with a small tremor.

He’s real? God, how is he real?

He breaks the kiss with a soft groan and leans his forehead against mine.

“Fuck, I love you, Hannah.”

“And I love you.”

“Get some sleep. You’re going to need it. I’m willing to bet my mother will be here as soon as they let her in.”

I chuckle, but when he tries to leave, I grip his fingers in mine and wrap them over my stomach.

“Stay.”

“Always, little doe.”