Page 139 of Salvatore

“She’s already asked ten times and will probably ask another ten more.” The nurse focuses on the heart rate monitor abovethe bed and taps something into her device. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Just rest,” the doctor states. “You’ll wake up soon enough.”

Ivy nods, her eyes continuing to go from serial-killer wide to baked shut. “Can I see the wounds?”

“You already did, sweetie.” The nurse taps notes into her tablet. “Are you hungry? Can I get you a popsicle to suck on?”

“Mmm.” Ivy smiles. “Please.” She rests her cheek into the pillow, her long lashes delicate against perfect skin.

“I’ll go get you one.” The nurse places her tablet on the portable station and walks away.

How the fuck did this happen?

She’d been in her room. Quiet. Presumably asleep.

I stayed up to make sure. I didn’t enter the basement until I hadn’t heard a noise from her in over an hour. “How long will this last?”

The doctor rounds the bed, approaching Ivy from the other side. “Sometimes it’s a few minutes. Others last up to an hour.”

“She can’t stay here.” Not like this. Not goddamn pharma-stoned. “We need to leave.”

“S-sir,” he splutters. “She just had abdominal surgery. She can’t go anywhere.”

“I beg to differ.” I glide my hands into my pockets, fighting back the visual of his dead body at my feet. “But please tell me how you plan to stop me.”

He blanches. “It simply isn’t possible. She has to be?—”

“Monitored? I can arrange that. What else would she need?”

He stares as if I’m deranged.

Astute assessment.

“She would have to be observed by a physician.” He raises his feeble voice. “But she’s still sedated. She can’t give consent?—”

“Forgive me for not getting my point across clearly.” I straighten my shoulders, my smile all teeth and ragingaggression. “Ivy isn’t safe here. And if Ivy isn’t safe, that means you aren’t either. Because if anything happens to her I’ll destroy everything you hold dear. Starting with those money-making hands of yours.”

Terror stares back at me. Terror from a fully-grown, professionally capable man who knows his way around a scalpel.

“Did the surgery go well?” Ivy mumbles, raising the bedsheet. “Can I see my wounds?”

We ignore her, opting to maintain a stare-off Griffiths loses the battle in holding.

“She would have to be monitored closely.” He lowers his gaze. “Especially in the first twenty-four hours.”

“That part isn’t a problem.” I pull out my cell and text Lorenzo’s personal physician. The guy brought Matthew back from the dead not long ago, so I know he’s qualified. “What else?”

“If you can wait, I’ll arrange some pain medication?—”

“We’re not waiting. I can get my hands on drugs.”

His chin raises, his distaste for my station in life obvious. “You’ll need to sign an AMA. You’re taking her against medical advice.”

“I’m not signing shit. How restricted is she with movement?”

He huffs in frustration. “It’s beneficial that she walks at least a little over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours to lower the risk of clotting. Twisting, bending, and abdominal movements need to be discouraged for at least the first week. Then there’s her gluteal and arm wounds to be mindful of.”

“I’m hungry,” Ivy murmurs, her voice losing some of the zooted tone. “I could eat an entire rotisserie chicken.”

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