Page 140 of Salvatore

The doctor stares at me, as if weighing the weight of the world. “Can you promise these injuries won’t be inflicted upon her again?”

I incline my head. “Once I figure out how the fuck she got them.”

His lips purse, his mental debate loud despite his silence. Then finally he reaches for the nurses’ station, retrieves the tablet, then walks around the bed toward me as the nurse returns with a bright red popsicle.

“Here you go, Ms. Diaz.” The woman grabs for a remote on the side of the bed. “Are you ready to sit up a little?” The nurse dotes over Ivy, inclining the head of the bed and helping her to get upright as Doctor Griffiths sidles up beside me and points at a line of text under aNotesheading.

Patient reports injuries were caused by metal knitting needles.

I read it twice, making sure I’m not hallucinating, while Ivy moans enthusiastically around a red icy pole.

“Get me a wheelchair,” I growl.

It takes less than five minutes to get Ivy settled in my rental, her anesthesia-addled smile beaming back at me as I slide behind the wheel.

She’s still got the last remaining dredges of her popsicle, her lips stained red from the coloring. Given different circumstances I would laugh at how she’s a perfect blend of drug-addled erotism.

But not today.

I drive from the hospital parking lot a hell of a lot more carefully than when I arrived, cautious of my gown-wearing queen's comfort and my volatile temper. I’m one tailgating idiot away from a road-rage incident that will make national news headlines.

“I was stabbed…” she says with a dreamy smile. “Multiple times… and survived… How badass is that?”

“Very badass, troublemaker. Want to tell me how it happened?”

Her smile fades as confusion mars her brow. She blinks a couple times then shakes her head with a flimsy chuckle. “No. I think I fell.”

I grit my teeth. “Fell where, Ivy?”

She sucks on her popsicle, the act seeming erotically choreographed to buy herself time. It fucking works. I could watch her deep throat that thing for the rest of my life.

“The back stairs,” she says around the wooden stick. “I wanted to sit by the pool and it was dark.” She licks the last remaining red liquid remnants and closes her eyes, nestling her cheek against the headrest. “Where are we going?”

“Back to Lorenzo’s”

Those dark eyes snap open. “No.” She sits straighter, as if the sedative blinders have finally been removed. “I can’t go back.”

“Why not?”

She stares at me, lips parted, breaths increasing. “Please, Salvatore. Take me anywhere else. Drop me at a shelter or a bus depot.”

“A fucking bus depot? Really?” I meet her gaze with a raised brow. “Why don’t you want to go to Lorenzo’s? You’ve stayed for weeks without complaint.”

“You’re the one who told me I’d worn out my welcome.” She jerks her attention to her side window, then lowers it to the door handle.

“Don’t even think about a tuck and roll from a moving fucking vehicle,” I seethe. “You might be numb at the moment, but that won’t last forever, and I swear to God my punishment for you putting your life in danger will be more painful than hitting the asphalt at sixty miles.”

“I’m not going to jump.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

“Then answer the fucking question. Are you worried about the increased threat from my uncle or the one from my mother after she attempted to stab you to death?”

She turns rigid, her adamant attention on the door handle making me motherfucking nervous.

“When did you find out?” she whispers.

“Ten minutes ago when your surgeon showed me the notes on your file. Evidently, you’re a live-feed spoiler alert while recovering from sedation.”

She winces, the sadness in her profile cutting me at the knees.

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