Beautifully Cruel

Chapter 4

JENNIE

I wakeup in a hospital bed with a needle in the back of my hand and a pleasant fuzziness in my head. Sunlight streams through the windows. Birds chirp in the trees outside.

I have no idea what's happening.

Pain pokes vaguely at the edges of my awareness, but it's being held in check by whatever wonderful mix of meds are flowing through my veins, courtesy of the needle.

Snatches of memory drift by like clouds: Sirens. Rainfall. The ride to the hospital in an ambulance going much too fast, judging by all the uncontrolled swerving.

The wolf on the seat opposite my cot, gazing at me in stone-faced silence.

His hand gripping mine.

I must've gone in and out of consciousness, because I have no recollection of how I came to be in this room or this bed. I have impressions of people as they leaned over me, faces blurry, lips moving without sound, and of being wheeled to different rooms, the seams of the ceiling tiles passing by overhead like lines on a freeway. There must have been tests, X-rays or such, but I don't remember those, either.

What I remember most clearly is believing I was about to die—horribly, painfully—but I didn't.

My big bad wolf saved me.

It's a testament to just how hopped up I am on pain medication that the thought makes me smile.

When I moisten my lips, he grabs a cup from the nightstand beside the chair and holds the bent straw to my mouth so I can drink. I sip, cool water sliding over my tongue and down my throat, gazing up at him as I swallow.

I say, "I bet that helps in your line of work."

His dark brows draw together. "What's that?"

"Being so hot and inscrutable. It distracts people. Catches them off guard. Are you going to tell me your name now that you've saved my life, or should I just assume The Batman is real and you're some billionaire with a fetish for latex suits and macho technology who roams the streets at night fighting crime?"

He stares at me in silence.

I sigh. "Okay. Bruce Wayne it is. Though I gotta tell you, you don't look much like a Bruce to me. I would've pegged you more as an Apollo or something."

"Apollo is a Greek name."

"Oh. Right. Not exactly Irish."

He adds, "It means 'destroyer.'"

"So there you go! Is there an Irish name for destroyer? What does Connor mean? I always thought that sounded like a hot badass name. Are you an assassin?"

He gazes at me pensively for a moment, then touches my forehead with the backs of his fingers.

His voice thoughtful, he says, "We're not going to have a relationship."

I smile at him. "You're silly."

His expression is a combination of frustration, irritation, and helpless intrigue. I'm charming him, and he doesn't like it.

"I told you I don't do relationships."

"Yes, and you also sat in my section for almost a year staring at me, and tried to tell me goodbye but then saved my life, and admitted your favorite ice cream flavor was pistachio, too, after I said that really embarrassing thing about how if it was, it was a sign that we were meant to be together forever. So I feel like all that sort of voided your ban on relationships. Tell me I'm wrong."