Psychiatrist: What triggers you?
Me: Nouns
Psychiatrist: Nouns?
Me: You know, people, places and things.
-Text from Belle to Bourne
BELLE
“You’re sure the memory will come back?” I asked nervously, looking at the man at the end of the bed that was tying his boots.
“With time, yes,” Dr. Blunt replied. “It’s not very surprising that he has memory loss. He suffered a motorcycle wreck. Hit his head pretty hard on the ground because of the way he landed. Fortunately for him, he was wearing a helmet like a sane person. Had brain swelling. It’s normal. Most people get their memories back. You’re lucky he remembers you.”
I wasn’t so sure he ‘remembered’ me as much as he was possessive of me.
I mean, I’d take it, but I wanted him to figure out what got him here in the first place.
The fact that he couldn’t remember was scaring the crap out of me.
An assassin set on killing you over something you don’t even remember that you know? That wasn’t a good thing.
“He’s free to go.” Dr. Blunt shoved his hands into the pockets of his doctor’s coat. “If you have any questions, call the nurse.”
I would’ve laughed had I not been so scared.
I’d never really dealt with being ‘targeted’ before. I mean, my dad was a cop. I was protected beyond measure.
But the moment we left this hospital, we were going to find ourselves the target of someone that was hell-bent on killing the man I was quickly falling for.
Hell, I didn’t know who I was joking.
I’d already fallen for him.
It’d started when I’d denied him a date and ended when I’d found him hurt here in the hospital.
I didn’t have much rationality where he was concerned.
I mean, who the hell fell in love with a guy that fast? Certainly not most sane women.
And hell, what made it worse was that the majority of the ten days that I’d been around him, he’d spent in a coma and couldn’t talk back to me.
“Thank you,” I murmured softly. “I really appreciate everything that you’ve done for him.”
Dr. Blunt grunted out a few words that I couldn’t quite decipher and then left, leaving without another word.
I walked back past the two security guards that had scary looking eyes—eyes that felt like they looked straight through my soul—and moved toward Bruno.
“You ready to go?” I asked him.
“Mr. Dumas,” the security guard that was closest to me said. “We’ve got you a car in the back alley closest to the service entrance.”
Bruno stood up, his face ghostly white, and carefully nodded his head.
He had a fresh Band-Aid on his arm that covered his recently removed IV.
That was the only thing that could be considered ‘wrong’ with him since all of his other wounds were covered up by clothing.