I turn toward Brody, who’s adjusting my bed so I’m slowly shifting from a prone position to more of an incline. I groan as a dull ache pulses at my leg. If I remember correctly, it’s the broken one. Questions bombard my brain. I still haven’t caught up with what is happening. I’m supposed to be dead. I felt the chemicals the technicians used to kill me enter my body. I lost consciousness.
Supporting my shoulders with an arm, Brody brings the rim of the glass to my parched lips. With shaking hands, I cover his and hold the glass in place until I’ve consumed every last drop. A stream runs down my chin. I don’t care. I run the back of my hand over my mouth, ignoring the IV there.
“More,” I croak.
My mentor complies without question. By the time I down my third glass, my mind is less muffled. Less like it’s filled with cotton. As I return to my senses, I’m aware of Bedlam continuing to watch me with an intensity beyond what I’m used to coming from him. It’s as if he expects me to vanish at any second like I expect him to do. I doubt he’s blinked since I woke up.
I clear my throat one more time. When the inner walls feel less scratchy from the help of the water, I attempt to speak again.
“Where am I?” are my first words.
The weakness in my voice is foreign to me. It’s as if I’m not the one speaking. Gone is the confidence I once possessed or the measured cadence. What remains is uncertainty and a tinge of fear. I refuse to accept any of this. I refuse to hope. I could just as easily be hallucinating, and when I wake up, I will find myself back at Punishment Square about to meet my maker. I didn’t die a racer as I always thought I would. I died a disgrace. The disgust coiling in my gut is almost enough to make me doubt the choices I have made that lead up to this point.
I’m so embroiled in my own thoughts that I miss most of Brody’s sentence until I hear the word hospital. “I’m supposed to be dead,” comes my immediate, uncensored response.
Brody’s expression softens to that of guilt, but before he can say anything else, Bedlam interrupts him with, “Let me just say that I never agreed to any of this. The bastards kept me sedated the entire time.”
“Any of what? And sedated?” I ask him. None of this is making sense.
Instead of answering, he shoots a particularly toxic glare Brody’s way. For once the head of security for the Bitterblade family is contrite when he usually faces opposition with brute force.
“You were never going to be executed, RC,” Brody says in a long, drawn-out sigh.
Absentmindedly I reach for the top of my head to scratch an itch that has begun there. Bandages similar to the ones Bedlam wears meet my fingertips. That’s when Brody’s words sink in. “I’m… alive.” I stare at the sheets covering my lap. Grabbing a part of the cloth, I pull until I expose the ankle that’s supposed to be broken. It’s currently covered in a cast with my toes sticking out at the end. I wiggle my big one. The ache shifts to a pinch. Pain. If I’m dead, I shouldn’t be feeling any pain, right?
“I’m alive?” Should I dare hope? “This could just be my form of hell.” My statement gets a laugh from Bedlam—a throaty sound that injects much-needed warmth into my body. Brody runs his hand over his bald head until he reaches the back of his neck and squeezes there.
The door bursts open and in strides a massive figure closely followed by someone wheeling in a basket of fruits on his lap. Almost immediately tears well in my eyes and I whimper. All heads turn to me. The two new arrivals drop their jaws at the same time. I cover my face with both hands and openly weep, overwhelmed by all the information hitting me at once.
“This is too much,” I say into my hands. Images of burned buildings and charred bodies assail me. Between sobs I say, “This is the sickest joke—”
“It’s not a joke,” Screw says in that deadpan tone of his I would recognize even in hell. The side of my bed dips, and powerful arms engulf me in a tight embrace. I fling my arms around Screw’s thick neck and hold on like I’m about to fall off a cliff. My muscles are stiff and protest my sudden movements, but I’m beyond caring. The relief comes pouring out of me, dulling some of the trauma I’ve suffered during this ordeal. I will never forget what the underboss put me through. Nightmares are definitely in my future. But… this is a dream. The best kind possible.
“Brody saved us,” Mac adds, squeezing my thigh.
I lift my head from Screw’s shoulder high enough so I can see my mentor, who has returned to his bedside seat, rubbing at his forehead. “But the bodies…. Trevor!”
When Screw chuckles, the vibrations seep into me. “He’s overseeing the reconstruction of the garage. Under his tyrannical rule, it will be ready by the time you get out of here.”
“He’s more obsessive-compulsive than I am,” says Mac in admiration. I imagine him nodding along with
