Page 135 of Salvatore

“Tell me, Ivy.” he snarls.

“Maybe later. I’m tired.” I raise my palm from my abdomen to check my wounds, the tiny hole still purging dark blood.

“Don’t do that.” He clasps a hand over mine, smacking my palm back to my stomach. “You need to hold pressure.”

I cry out at the insurgence of pain, the air stolen from my lungs.

“Fuck.” He watches me struggle, the stern pinched apology in his features making me work harder to pull myself together.

“Eyes on the road, mobster,” I grit out as he holds my gaze, the threat of a high-speed crash hurtling closer by the second as his harsh stare begs forgiveness. “I said, eyes on the road,niñito.”

He huffs a frustrated breath and finally drags his hands and attention away, muttering something undecipherable under his breath that’s kinda sexy as far as my blood-deprived brain is concerned.

“Stay awake,” he demands. “We’ll be at the hospital in less than five minutes.”

I nod, determined to comply. But the closer we get to the hospital, the more space that freshly packed trauma box takes up in my mind, demanding to be acknowledged.

It taunts me. Torments.

“We’re close.” Salvatore takes a corner at speed, forcing me to tense muscles that don’t want to be tensed.

I wince through the discomfort and right myself in a seat now coated in my blood.

“Don’t tell anyone your name.” He pulls up to the hospital, stopping at the ER. doors, hitting the brakes and the horn at the same time. “I can keep you safe. Just don’t tell anyone your name.” He launches from the car and drags me into a whirlwind where I’m carried from the vehicle and rushed toward approaching hospital staff who pepper me with questions.

“Tell me what happened?”

“How did you get these injuries?”

“When did the incident occur?”

I feign incoherence while I’m placed on a gurney and wheeled down a brightly lit hall, losing sight of Salvatore.

“Get trauma bay one ready.”

“We’ve got active bleeding—suspected abdomen.”

“Multiple penetrating wounds. Clean punctures.”

They push my gurney into a room filled with medical equipment, an entourage of concerned-faced professionals hustling around me, grabbing gloves and opening drawers.

A man raises my pajama top. I’m poked and prodded.

“Where’s Salvatore?” I rasp, trying to sit up.

I’m pushed back onto the gurney by the male doctor who looks too young to hold credentials.

“Can you tell me your name, miss?

“How many wounds do you have?”

“What were they inflicted with?”

I crane my neck to look toward the door as multiple hands descend upon me, checking vitals, inspecting wounds.

“She’s tachycardic.”

“Prep for a transfusion—type and cross match ASAP.”

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