Page 11 of Enigma: The Final Chapter
Air whizzes from Isaac’s lips, physically winded by Col’s cruel words. He tries to smother the look of guilt on his face, but he isn’t quick enough to fully suffocate it before Col notices it. “See, even you know her death is your fault. If she’d never met you, she’d still be alive, just like Isabelle.E giunto il momento per gli angeli di incontrarsi.”
I can’t breathe when Col thrusts his hand into the breast pocket of his jacket and produces a vintage white pistol. The greatest parts of my life flash before my eyes when he swings the barrel of the gun toward my face. The smell of gunpowder, burning flesh, and blood invade my nostrils as sharp and brutal pain rockets through my body.
Then all I see is blackness.
Chapter 5
Isabelle
An insistent dull beep sounds through my ringing ears, waking me from my sleep. Slowly, I blink my eyes open, my brows stitching when I'm met with a white circular light. A groan spills from my parched throat as I move my hand to something jabbing painfully in my arm. My movements are sluggish and slow since my brain is not instantly relaying the prompts to my body.
“Leave it,” commands a deep voice at my side I instantly recognize. “It’s an intravenous line.”
Isaac houses his cell phone into the pocket of his trousers before moving to stand next to me. I inhale deeply, appreciating the smell of his seductive scent over the horrid odor of bleach mingling in the air. His face appears restless, and the stubble on his chin has grown since I saw him in Avery’s office, but he is still incredibly alluring.
“Where am I?” The thump of my head increases with each syllable I speak.
“You’re in Ravenshoe Private Hospital.”
Confusion surges through me.
Isaac lifts a pale yellow pitcher to fill a clear cup with water. “Do you remember anything that happened?”
I shake my head, doubling the worry on Isaac’s face. After placing a plastic straw in the cup, he raises it to my mouth. I greedily gulp down the water, eager to quench my thirst. My throat is so dry it feels like I haven’t had a drink in months.
“Not too much.” His voice is a soft, nurturing purr. “You need to give your stomach a chance to adjust.”
I pout when he pulls the half-empty cup away from my still-parched mouth, but my pulse quickens when he mutters, “If you drop that lip again, I’ll bite it.”
He lifts a remote, the cords of which are twisted around the steel railing of the bed, to recline the top half of the mattress. “Is that better?” he asks once I’m in a half-seated position.
I nod, ignoring the swirling my stomach is doing from the gluttonous gulps of water I swallowed.
As always, Isaac senses my discomfort. “Are you in pain?”
I shake my head. “No.”
His dark brow arches high, calling out my deceit.
“The water is a little sloshy in my belly.”
His lips set into a hard line. “I’ll get the doctor.”
Before I can object, he moves to a closed glass-paneled door. While he fetches the doctor, I lower my blurry eyes to my body, seeking hints as to why I am in the hospital. Other than wearing a blue hospital gown and having an IV line inserted into my wrist, I appear unharmed. I scan the room. There are a blood pressure machine and heart monitor to my right, an IV stand with two bags of clear fluids to my left, and numerous bunches of floral arrangements on every flat surface in the room.
My eyes stray to the side when a doctor wearing pink scrubs and a white coat enters the room with Isaac. Her dark brown, nearly black hair is secured into place with two pens. She has a lovely Asian appearance with bright green eyes. Her skin is flawless, her cheekbones are high, and her thin, pink lips are glossy.
“How are you feeling?” My brows scrunch, surprised by the uniqueness of her heavily drawled accent. She smiles at my reaction. “My mom is Korean, my dad is Australian, but they’ve lived in Texas for over thirty years. I'm a little mix of them both… my mom’s looks and my dad’s accent.”
My heart warms to the stranger. Her aura is just like Harlow’s, and I can tell if given the opportunity, we could become great friends.
“You sustained a traumatic concussion when part of your temporal skull hit the concrete during impact,” she advises while pulling a white ophthalmoscope from the pocket of her coat.
My eyes shoot across the room when Isaac’s attempt to suppress a groan is futile. He scrubs his hand along the thick stubble on his jaw as guilt hampers his usually tempting gaze.
“I'd choose to sustain a concussion than a bullet wound any day, Isaac,” the doctor mumbles as she flicks a bright light in front of my eyes. White lights dance around the room for several seconds when she returns the flashlight to her pocket. “Your optic and oculomotor nerves appear to be functioning accurately.”
I wince as a sharp, jolting pain radiates through my head when she pushes on the right side of my skull, just behind my ear. “Sorry.” She continues her assessment. “The area of impact will be tender for a few more days.” She shifts her gaze to Isaac, who is standing beside me. “Ensure she's administered pain relief every four to six hours but steer clear of anything aspirin-related. I’ll also give you a prescription for a stronger dosage of pain medication, but it runs the risk of increasing her nausea and fatigue.” Her gaze turns back to me. “Only use it if you feel the pain is becoming too much for you to handle.”
