Elizabeth
Dominic isn’t returning tonight, specifically because I asked him not to. He looked awful, and he needs some sleep in a real bed, not folded up in that uncomfortable hospital chair. Still, a part of me wishes I hadn’t asked him to stay away. Or at least insisted on leaving here with him. I hate the hospital—the pungent smell, the brisk efficiency and the sickness.
I snort at myself. It’s ridiculous that I’m complaining. I’m one of the patients. Just look at the stapled gash in my head.
I’m bored out of my mind, but I’m not interested in watching TV. Most channels are showing old TV shows and movies—fashion and hair looking dreadfully dated. I shouldn’t snicker too much, though. I’m sure twenty years from now people will look at my pictures and say, “Wow, what was she thinking?”
CNN International broadcasts another depressing piece of news about some conflict overseas, where a bunch of civilians are murdered. I turn it off, helplessness unfurling inside the pit of my belly. I don’t understand why they show such things, knowing that most of us can’t bring about real change. It’s as though they want us to feel awful and anxious about what’s around us. Exhaling roughly, I reach for one of the books Dominic left behind. They’re romance novels, all of them contemporary. I raise an eyebrow. Of all the things, romance is not what I expected Dominic to buy. I thought he would read me a book on—
A loud commotion outside interrupts my thoughts. Voices are rising, and I hear a gravelly curse word or two.
“I’m her personal assistant. She wants me with her.”
“But sir—”
“All you have to do is let me in. Then we’ll see who’s telling the truth.”
“But it’s late, and she nee—”
The door to my room opens, and a tall, broad-should
ered man enters like a battle tank. His sandy brown hair’s not even an inch long over the curve of his skull. He’s in a stiffly starched dress shirt, open at his throat, and black slacks. His pale blue eyes pin me to the bed.
“Lizochka,” he says, in a voice that is simultaneously chilling and soothing. “How are you feeling?”
The nurse who followed him points an accusing finger at him. “Miss, do you know this man?” Then she shakes her head. “Why am I even asking?”
I blink at her, wondering what she expects me to say.
The nurse shakes her head again. “Okay. I’ll have him thrown out,” she says, her voice hard with determination.
I study the small woman and the huge man. He looks like he could break a sequoia over his knee. Security won’t stop him.
“That won’t be necessary.” Speaking to him is going to be far more interesting and productive than watching the news or reading a romance novel. “He’s…uh…my assistant. I really need to speak with him.”
He gives the nurse a triumphant smirk. “See?”
“This is against the rules. It’s after nine thirty!”
Goodness. So now the time of day is wrong, too. “I’m sorry.” I keep my tone soothing and sweet. “But I don’t want to be alone tonight, and my fiancé isn’t coming back until tomorrow.”
The man’s head swivels in my direction with the speed of a praying mantis spotting prey. He waits until the nurse finally gives up and leaves, closing the door behind her, then sits in the most uncomfortable-looking chair made of molded plastic.
“A fiancé?” He arches an eyebrow. “When did that happen?” He stops and raises a hand. “But first, I’m Tolyan. I do everything you need me to do.”
“Hi.” I smile at him.
“You can trust me, but you should also be wary of me.”
“Why?”
“Because of your memory. When you can’t trust your memory, you can’t be too careful.”
“You’re funny. And you just made your job harder. What if I decide I don’t want to trust you after all?”
“Then I’ll just have to earn it.”
I grin in spite of myself. I like the flat way he speaks, like it’s all just a matter of facts. “Confident, I see. How many nurses did you have to harass to reach here?”