“Vivianne?” A coarse male voice came from the other side of the curtain. The voice sounded a heck of a lot like the cranky firefighter.
Vivianne batted at the curtain and slipped around it. “Brother! You’re awake too?”
Brother? Emma racked her brain. All she could remember was detecting that her wards around the building were gone. And a heat signature. Then holding the shield over Mia until she couldn’t hold it anymore. Flint was in the room? Vivianne was here . . . why? Flint must be here. Emma’s brain was scrambled.
18
His head hurt like his older brother had dropped him on it again. He rubbed his temples. Vivianne was so loud. And why was she in his cabin when she had little Drake to take care of? Penny was being awfully quiet for a Sunday.
He rubbed his head. Not Sunday. Monday. His eyes opened, and it came back to him. So much. Emma. Hudson and Flint loading her into the back. Holding her hand. Seeing Mirabel and collapsing. Fuck.
Mirabel appeared around the white curtain. It wasn’t the normal hospital room divider with a stark white curtain, either. No, it was light beige with Asian characters down the side. There were loons and a setting sun painted on it. Mirabel and his sister stood between him and Emma.
Flint tossed the covers back and swung his legs over the edge, and the world tilted sideways.
“Whoa, whoa. What are you trying to prove, big guy?” Vivianne had her hands on his shoulders and pushed against them while Mirabel swung his feet back onto the bed. Mirabel had the blanket on one side, and Vivianne had it on the other, and they tucked him in tight, like the stuffing in an egg roll.
“There’s nothing wrong with me. I rode in the ambulance with Emma.” He pinched his temples. Something about staring at Mirabel’s shoes, up close, danced around the back of his head. “Nothing’s wrong with me. I’m just a little hungry.” The last thing he remembered eating was a second batch of eggs at the fire station before the fireball exploded next door. “Emma,” he whispered, looking at his sister.
“What?” Emma's voice cracked from the bed next to his.
He was in her room and he needed to get out, but his sister and his one-time hookup weren’t having it. They were acting like he was sick. Which was absurd. There wasn’t anything wrong with him. He ignored the soft voice of the witch across the room, focusing on his sister instead. “Vivianne, you’re being absurd. Let me get up. I have to be at work tomorrow. Plus, I have to go take care of Penny.”
She laughed at him. “Work? Tomorrow? Do you know what day it is, Flint?”
“Monday.”
“Try again.” His sister had a caring, tender glance overtop of her normal older sister smirk.
“Tuesday?” Flint took a breath. He’d never missed a shift in ten years, even after the time he’d slipped off a ladder and sprained his elbow.
“Nope.” His sister put an infuriatingly caring hand on his hospital-gown-covered shoulder. The gown had wolves on it, a little factoid that upset the human side of him, it being over the top, while the shifter side was sending out little approving chuffs.
“Stop it, Vivianne.” Mirabel pointed to the white board on the wall. It read Nurse: Mirabel Dawson, Doctor: Dr. T. Swan, Date: Friday February 18th, Weather: Snow. “It’s Friday, Flint.”
“No. It’s not Friday.” The heart rate monitor picked up speed. “Why would I have been unconscious for days?”
“Flint?” Emma raised her voice.
“Emma?” He lifted his head.
Vivianne cocked her head at her brother. “You have anything you want to tell us, Flint?”
The two females stared down at him.
“No.” Flint snapped out of his daze. “Listen, this little inquisition has been fun. But I’ve got things to do.”
This time they both stood back, letting him stand, the IV pole trailing beside him. “Can you take this out? I don’t need it.” Flint pointed to the line taped to his arm.
Mirabel stared at him. “Can you wait for the doctor?”
“No.” His cheeks hurt from the force with which the word came out. “You take it out or I will.”
“Mirabel Dawson, don’t you dare take that line out without letting Dr. Swan take a look at Flint first. You don’t know . . .”
Flint didn’t hear anything his sister said after that. The purple tendrils of his magic were vibrating along the curtain, trailing down it in a waterfall to the floor. Flint fought the curtain separating the room, the fabric’s metal mechanism clattering and squealing in protest as he did. His power marched across the room toward Emma like ants to the dessert table at the pack summer barbecue.
“Emma.” His voice was so low he didn’t recognize it himself. “Are you okay?”
Her hair consumed the pillow she lay on, and her skin lacked the rose hue of their time together at his cabin. So small and vulnerable—he wanted to smack away the rest of the world. And fight off anyone or anything that might come near her.
Emma pushed herself up and made it a few inches before she stopped squirming.
“Flint, you need to get back in bed.” Vivianne was at his side.
“I’m fine,” he snarled.
“You’re not fine. Your heart rate was sitting at 40 beats per minute for the last three days.” Mirabel pointed to the monitor.
“It’s barely up to 50 now.” Vivianne let out a long, exasperated sigh.
“Looks good to me now.” He glanced over his shoulder without reading the monitor. Was he lightheaded? Sure. Was he going to pass out? Most likely not. But a tiny step forward, and he was gripping the edge of Emma’s bed rail to keep from going down.
“You don’t look good.” Emma’s lips were even redder against her pale skin.
Normally, Flint wanted to throw down a return insult. But there was nothing normal about how he felt about Emma. And that scared the crap out of him. Not only was she a witch, she was a witch that made his own damn witch-i-ness explode into fireworks. Flint growled.
And Emma flinched.
