Page 170 of Broken Saint

The second my lids open, I find him.

He’s lying exactly as he was before I fell asleep. His expression is still blank, his lips still slightly parted, the tubes and wires all still in place.

As I blink the sleep from my eyes, I wonder if he has a little more color in his cheeks, but I quickly banish the thought. I don’t want any false hope.

On Colt’s other side, I find West sitting awkwardly in the chair, his eyes closed and his mouth open as he sleeps. Guilt washes through me. He needs this bed. He might be granted a few days off, but he’s going to have to get back to training sooner rather than later, and he doesn’t need to be battling kinked muscles from sleeping in a chair.

But that’s nothing compared to the moment my eyes lock on the tub of Hershey bars.

I swear I only had four, but as I stare at it now, I find it’s half empty.

My stomach knots as bile rushes up my throat.

Before I register it, I’ve thrown the blanket off and I’m running toward the bathroom.

I drop to my knees in front of the toilet and bring up what’s left of my chocolate binge.

The second I’m done and fall back on my ass, disgust, shame, and self-hatred engulf me.

Wrapping my arms around my legs, I pull them up to my chest and sob with my head resting on my knees, desperately trying to keep quiet. The last thing I need is anyone witnessing this.

As soon as I feel capable, I push to my feet and clean up as if nothing happened.

As I slip out of the bathroom, the door clicks closed louder than I was expecting and West suddenly sits upright, his eyes wide and panicked.

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing. Everything is fine,” I lie. “Did you want to take the bed? I’m awake now.”

“You sure?”

“Of course. It’s all yours.”

He pads toward me before taking my face in his hands and leaning forward to press a kiss to my head.

I cringe, aware that I probably smell like vomit. But if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“Just a couple more hours, then I’ll keep you company.”

“Take all the time you need,” I say with a smile I don’t mean before curling into the chair and holding Colt’s hand once more.

“Come back to me, baby. Please. I can’t lose you again. I won’t survive it.”

44

ELLA

It’s been a little over forty-eight hours since Colt was admitted to the ICU.

The longest forty-eight hours of my life.

I’ve yet to leave this floor, let alone get anywhere close to leaving the hospital despite everyone trying to convince me to.

Between West, their father, and me, there has always been someone sitting with Colt, holding his hand, talking to him, begging him to come back to us.

Dalton returned yesterday morning like he promised, and the second he stepped into the room, I made my excuses and fled to the bathroom to avoid him.

He stayed for a couple of hours before disappearing. He returned in the evening, and he was clearly in a better mood than the first time we met because when I tried to disappear again, he stopped me.

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