Page 136 of Salvatore

My wrists are turned from side to side, my injuries pointed out by glove-covered fingers. Then a female doctor claims my vision, getting right up close to steal my attention. “I need you to tell me your name, sweetheart.”

I shake my head, still coherent enough to understand the dangers of that admission.

There can’t be a hospital record of this. No paper trail. No surveillance triggers.

“What happened to you?” She holds my gaze with kind eyes, trying to coax the secrets out of me while the young guy cuts my pajama top down the middle.

“I, um…” I keep shaking my head, keep craning my neck for a glimpse of Salvatore while the once-ignored trauma creeps closer.

“Don’t worry,” the woman soothes. “The man you came in with is talking to medical staff. We need to concentrate on you right now. How did you get these injuries?”

I’m rolled onto my side by the male, my pajama bottoms sliced along my left so the wounds beneath can be inspected.

“There’s multiple lacerations to the upper gluteal region.”

“The abdominal wounds are our issue. We need to make sure there’s no perforation.”

“Book an OR and prep her for surgery.”

“Surgery?” My pulse pounds in my ears.

“Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.” The woman gives a pained smile, the commotion in the room increasing. “Have you eaten lately?”

“No.” I wince through the cacophony. It’s too much. The noise. The pain. The relentless pressure of that unavoidable trauma. “I barely had dinner hours ago. But I can’t have surgery.”

Her gaze turns pitying. “We need to get you into an operating room to check for organ damage and prevent sepsis.” She turns her gaze to the male still engrossed in my hip wounds. “I’ll page Griffiths.”

“Wait.” My bloody hand clamps around her arm, leaving crimson fingerprints on her scrubs. “I’m not ready.”

She doesn’t acknowledge me. None of them do, as their exchange of medical jargon drowns me out.

“Are you listening?” The trauma I’ve tried to ignore grows, tinkering with my mental stability, demanding the spotlight. I force myself onto my elbows, searching the room then catching sight of Salvatore down the hall, locked in a heated argument with security. “I need time to think.”

The doctor pats my fingers, dismissive but firm. “We can’t wait. The risk of infection is too high.” She peels my hand from her arm and sets it at my side, her pitying look enough to crush me.

The gurney rails are raised with a clatter, and I’m wheeled toward the door.

“No.” The once sturdy walls of my trauma box wither, the structural integrity collapsing.

Ivy, you’ve seen the signs. You can’t run from this.

“Please listen to me,” I beg.

The woman pauses, her eyes flicking down to my trembling hand gripping the hem of her scrub top. “What is it, sweetheart?”

The trolley jerks forward, the momentum jarring.

My gaze locks with hers, the words thick and tangled in my throat. I’ve fought against facing this for weeks. Have pushed aside the warning signs. Have pretended they didn’t exist. But there’s no pretending anymore. “I need you to be careful.”

Her brows knit. “Careful of what?”

I swallow down the razor blades in my throat and drag in a nauseating breath. “I think I might be pregnant.”

29

SALVATORE

I pacethe emergency waiting room, Lorenzo’s guard having delivered a fresh suit, along with an update that Catarina was woken and informed not to enter the house. But that was over a fucking hour ago.

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