Jaz had done all she could to hide our reincarnation from everyone. The doctors and nurses called me Mr. James Ambrose. No one knew my true identity. She’d even taken us to a hospital we’d never been to before—boycotting our usual medical team in favour of strangers who would keep us unknown.
It didn’t mean I trusted anyone, though.
I risked anonymity by contacting Nila, but I couldn’t deny myself anymore. Just thinking of messaging her like we did before I claimed her made my heart beat stronger and blood pump faster.
She was my cure—not drugs or doctors. I was stupid to avoid contacting her for so long when all I wanted to do was drag her into my embrace and keep her safe forever.
Wrapping my arm around my waist, adding pressure to the throbbing wound, I inched barefoot out of my room, dragging the drip on its little wheels behind me.
I’m a fucking invalid.
The hospital was quiet.
No emergencies. No visitors.
It was a nice reprieve from daylight hours when I had to focus entirely on the itching of my stitches and ache from my rib to negate the overpowering overshare of emotions from such a busy place.
I didn’t know the time, but the bright neons were dimmed, giving the illusion of peace and sleepiness. However, the morbid silence of death interrupted the false serenity, lurking in the darkness, waiting to pick off its latest victim.
Move along, death. You’re not taking me, my brother, or Nila.
Not this time.
My mind jumped back to the images that Bonnie had shown me a month or so ago. Her study had always been a festival of flowers and needlepoint, but when she’d invited me to tea, she had a new acquisition.
Photographs.
Images of a Weaver, who looked exactly like Nila and my great, great grandfather.
I’d always known I looked like Owen Hawk. Cut had told me a few times as I grew up. But that’d been the first time I’d heard how similar Owen and Elisa’s tale was to my own life.
It was meant to scare me. To keep me in line and show me what would happen if I followed that path.
It hadn’t stopped me.
I snorted under my breath.
And it came true.
Owen was murdered, just like I’d been. But that was where the similarities ended. Owen had died and left Elisa to suffer.
I’m still alive and I will save her.
My forehead dripped with sweat, and I gulped agonizing breaths by the time I finally shuffled down the corridor toward the front desk of the recovery wing. A nurse I’d seen once or twice looked up from her keyboard.
Plaited dark hair crowned her head while no makeup painted her face. Mid-fifties, matronly, and no-nonsense dress-code, she suited the role of caring for others rather than herself. But despite her lack of jewellery and personal adornment, her eyes were caring. In one glance, she gave me more motherly affection than I’d ever had in my youth.
For the first time in a long time, my mother made an appearance in my thoughts.
My heart thudded hard at the intrusion. I never liked thinking about her because I couldn’t stomach the memories that came with it. She’d been such a good person just stuck in a bad place. She’d done her best and given birth to four children before her strength deserted her, leaving her only legacy to fend without her.
For a while, I hated her for being so weak.
But now I understood her.
I pitied her.
The nurse shot from her chair as I stumbled forward, grabbing the desk for balance. “Mr. Ambrose, you really shouldn’t be out of bed.” Darting around the partition, she wrapped an arm around my waist, flaring my injury.
Dressed in a backless gown, and already feeding off her caring impulses and frustration at having an unruly patient out of bed, I waved her away. “Just give me a moment. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
I narrowed my eyes, blocking off her thoughts and focusing on my own. “Truly. I promise I won’t keel over and die on your shift.”
She huffed but moved away, staying within grabbing distance. I just hoped my arse wasn’t hanging out of the god-awful gown.
Wedging my back against the desk so she wouldn’t get an eyeful, I smiled grimly. “I needed some fresh air and a change of scenery.”