Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
"She's going to be a little devil if you keep spoiling her," I called after him as he started to walk away.
"She'll be fine," Raven said, moving in beside me. "Roman spoils the kids too. Which makes me have to be the bad guy at times. And the one to balance out all the crazy. But they have turned out alright so far. Bee will be okay too."
"And if she's not, I can just blame Fenway," I agreed, smiling.
Fenway - 11 years
"Sit down," Alvy demanded, patience wearing thin with my pacing.
"I can't," I said, heart hammering, thoughts swirling.
"Making yourself sick isn't going to help Wasp," they reminded me, ever my voice of reason.
Alvy had long since retired as my personal assistant, taking instead a corporate position in one of the family businesses, where they proved every bit as capable as they had been when they were keeping my messy life from falling apart.
They had still been an ever-present part of our life, though. Babysitting Bee. Coming over for dinner parties.
And, like now, sitting with me when I felt like everything was falling apart.
"I wanted to get rid of that goddamn thing a decade ago," I ranted, raking a hand through my hair, fear a live wire through my system, sparking off of every nerve ending.
"I know you did. But she was attached to it. You know that."
"Yeah," I agreed, jaw ticking. "But I never should have let her take it out."
"Fenway, this is Wasp we are talking about. If you told her she couldn't take Wanda out, she would have suggested kissing her ass. She wanted to take a little weekend trip for old time's sake with her best friend. No one could have predicted the driver of a semi passing out at the wheel," Alvy told me, making my gut twist painfully, the image playing itself out in my head for the millionth time since I'd heard the news.
I'd never known panic like that before in my life.
I'd been frantic when I called her brothers, getting one of their wives to take Bee so I could catch a plane, get to the hospital in North Carolina where they'd been struck.
Roman had been on the same plane with me, both of us rushing into the hospital, begging for updates.
Roman was the lucky one.
Raven had been in the back of the skoolie when they'd been struck head-on, getting only a mild concussion and a couple stitches to her temple from slamming into a cabinet.
Wasp?
Wasp had been right there in the front.
And it was a sad state of affairs when you had to be thankful the truck hit from the passenger side instead of the driver's, or we wouldn't be at the hospital right now. I'd be losing my shit at the morgue.
As it was, she was in surgery. And no one had any updates for me. Not even after I offered to build a whole new children's wing onto their hospital to get some.
"I won't feed you platitudes right now," Alvy said, taking a deep breath. "But I am going to suggest you hold off on losing your mind until you know if you need to or not."
The woman I loved—the only woman I could ever love—was on a cold metal table in a surgery room with parts of her ripped open. I couldn't be fucking calm.
"A new children's ward and a new cancer ward," I called to the nurse manning the desk a few feet away from me.
"That won't be necessary, Mr. Arlington," a voice said at my back, making my heart fly up into my throat as I turned, finding a doctor standing there, his mask still hanging off of one ear. "Your wife is out of surgery," he started.
All I could think was: out of surgery meant she was alive still.
I could handle anything if she was still alive.
No arms? I could feed her.
No legs? I could get one of those wheelchairs that damn near did everything for you.
She just had to be alive, damnit.
"Tell me," I demanded as Alvy got up, came to stand at my side.
"Your wife endured a blow to the head from hitting the window, a broken arm, and a laceration to her liver."
"Her liver? Does she need a new one? She can have mine. I don't need to drink. Just tell me where to go to get cut open."
"Thankfully, that won't be necessary," the doctor said, calm, professional, but his lips twitched ever so slightly. "The laceration was moderate. We managed to repair the damage. Her arm has pins. She has stitches to her forehead. But we suspect she is going to make a full recovery," he said, clamping a hand on my shoulder.
I was not, almost as a rule, affectionate with male strangers.
But I threw myself at the good doctor, giving him a bear hug.