Page 64 of Dash

Riot grabs my arms, steadying me. “You okay?”

“Whoa, head rush.” He frowns at me, so I give him a smile I don’t feel. “I’m okay. I just sat up too fast.”

I feel nauseous, exhausted and the smell of antiseptic is sitting in my throat like poison.

I stretch, working the knots out of my neck and shoulders.

“You should go home,” he says. “I’ll call you if anything changes.”

Is he serious?“Are you kicking me out?”

“You look wiped, Dayna. Go home, rest. If anything happens, I promise I’ll send someone myself to bring you back.”

I fold my arms over my chest, glaring at him. I probably should remember that even though he’s sweet with Ivy and Seren, he’s a dangerous man who could bury me in a shallow ditch.

“Would you go home if it was your girl lying on the bed?”

His jaw ticks. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“Right. So, I’m going to stay here.”

I sit in the plastic chair at the side of the bed as a patient nearby explodes into rattling coughs.

There’s a moment of silence, then he says, “I’m gonna find the doc.”

He leaves, and even though he didn’t say it, the implication hangs in the air. He has history with Ivy—I have nothing with Dash. I’m not even sure what Dash and I are to each other.

I shouldn’t let it bother me, but it burrows under my skin. It’s because I don’t feel worthy to be here, or like I belong.

I stare at the blood on his face, at how dark his lashes seem against his pale skin.

They couldn’t have cleaned him up after they stitched him?

I duck out of the cubicle and spot a sink. Grabbing a handful of blue roll, I wet it and grab some more for drying.

Then I head back to the cubicle. Riot’s wrong. I should be here, and not because of any history or whatever the fuck else he was implying, but because of how Dash responded when he saw me.

He wanted me here.

Needed me.

And I need him.

When I get back to his bedside, he’s still sleeping. I carefully lift his hair over the bandage and with gentle strokes wipe away the blood.

He doesn’t wake, and I manage to keep my belly under control—at least until I toss the bloody roll into the bin.

It happens quickly. The nausea hits like a wrecking ball, my stomach contracting savagely.

I rush through the maze of treatment spaces into the nearest bathroom and drop to my knees in front of the toilet.

I puke my guts up. It’s unholy how savagely violent it is.

I’m crying and coughing and gasping between every retch, trying to breathe while also dealing with the purging of every single thing I’ve eaten today, maybe ever.

When it subsides, I sag against the wall, trying to catch my breath.

Fuck, what the hell was that? I close my eyes, my body sore and wrung out.

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