How Sinners Fight (Sinners of Hawthorne University 2)

1

I’ve always wondered if sleep is somewhere between living and dying.

That’s what it feels like now.

Am I alive?

Am I dead?

My thoughts drift somewhere between awake and dreaming, visions and pictures floating through my mind in a muddled confusion of colors and faces, things I can’t quite grasp. All I know is the rush of air from my lungs. In and out it goes, keeping me alive. Blood pumps through my veins.

Not dead, then. At least, not yet.

Something is wrong. It tugs at the edges of my mind, scraping at my consciousness like barbed wire. But I’m not quite sure I’m ready to face it. I’d rather stay here in this peaceful, empty space than go back out into a world of saints and sinners.

Sinners.

My breath catches in my throat. A pulse of aches and pains flutter to life in my body as an unfamiliar room spins into focus. Head thick and groggy with confusion, I blink away the stars that prickle the sides of my eyes. Shadowy forms loom over me, backlit by the light in the ceiling. I blink again, and the faces come into better focus.

I know them. I know these faces.

Gray, Elias, and Declan.

The Sinners.

My vision is still blurry and not quite right, but I can clearly make out all three of them. Their heads are gathered in a tight knot over mine, all looking down at me with nearly identical worried looks on their faces.

“Sparrow. Thank fuck.”

Tension fades away from Gray’s face as he speaks. The line between his knitted brows vanishes as he scoops up my hand in his, bringing it to his face. He hasn’t shaved, and his jaw is rough with stubble. From the other side of the bed, Elias brushes my blue-streaked hair away from my face. Declan grabs my free hand, squeezing it tightly as his deep brown eyes watch me intently.

Each of them seems to hold their breath, either waiting for me to speak first or unable to speak for themselves.

It’s almost like… something is wrong.

Wrong with me?

My gaze flickers away from the guys’ faces when I realize that I’m not in my own bed. I’m in a bed that angles upward a little at the top, surrounded by a tangle of cords and monitors. An IV is hooked up to the crook of my arm, and a thin gown and sheet cover my body. The room I’m in is lit by bright sunlight, which means the clock on the wall must read seven in the morning, not in the evening.

It’s a hospital room.

I would know. I’ve been in my fair share of them. This one is way fancier than any of the hospital rooms I’ve ever been in before though. Like the stuff you see on those TV shows about medical practices, not the beatdown, shitty establishments I’ve been housed in for various injuries, the ones where you don’t know if someone else has died in the gown you just put on.

I tear my gaze away from my surroundings and look back at the guys.

Why am I here?

I open my mouth to ask the question out loud, but no sound comes out at first. My mouth is dry, my lips a little chapped. It feels like I’ve got sandpaper in my throat, and words seem to get lodged somewhere between my lungs and my lips. The feeling of not being able to speak sends a sudden rush of panic through me. I don’t like the feeling of being silenced. I fucking hate it.

“What… what happened?” I manage to say, forcing the words out even though they don’t want to come. My voice is barely more than a croak. “Why am I… here?”

Gray is the first to speak, and his voice is low and serious. Gentle. It reminds me of the way he spoke the day he told me it wasn’t the three of them who wrecked my paintings.

“You fell down a flight of stairs,” he says, “at the end of semester party we were at. Don’t you remember?”