Shattered (Extreme Risk 2)

She listens to my heart and lungs, but those sound normal—which she says is good, but I don’t know. At this point, nothing seems particularly good.

“So, what should we do?” Timmy’s mom says. She’s got a comforting arm around my shoulder and part of me wants to beg her to let go. I’m one comforting hug away from shattering into a million pieces and her warmth, her compassion, is only making it worse. “Do we need to get her to a doctor?”

“A doctor down here isn’t going to do much,” Ericka says. “That’s nothing against them, but all her charts, all her treatment information, is in the States. She needs to get back there, to the doctors that are familiar with her case.”

“We’re going home in three days,” I tell her. “I’ll call my mom before we leave, tell her to make me an appointment.”

Ericka looks at me disapprovingly. “You know that’s not how this works. You need to get to a hospital, let them run tests to figure out what’s going on.”

She’s right, I know she is. But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to accept. “Three days isn’t going to make a difference. I’ll go from the airport to the hospital once we land.”

“Three days can make a big difference,” Mrs. Varek tells me. “You know that, Tansy. We should pack, get ready to go in case Z can get the charter plane to fly us home today.”

“That’s not necessary. I’m fine.”

“You have an unexplained fever and a history of a cancer that devastates the immune system very quickly,” Ericka tells me quietly. “The sooner we can get you home, the better.”

Shit. “I don’t want to cut Timmy’s Make-A-Wish short—”

“Don’t be stupid!” Timmy snaps at me from the couch, the first time he’s spoken since this whole conversation began. “You think I care?”

“I think you deserve the full eight days.”

“And I think you deserve to live. So quit being an idiot and go pack,” he tells me, obviously annoyed.

I make a few more arguments, but nobody’s listening. Which is how I find myself standing outside my hotel room a couple minutes later, with Ericka by my side. “I’m fine,” I tell her for the millionth time. “See? I got here under my own power.”

“Good. Now, I’m going to call Z—”

“I told you I’d take care of that!”

She twists her mouth at me, completely unimpressed by my frustration—and my lying ability, or lack thereof.

“Go pack,” she tells me again. “I’ll be down to check on you again in an hour.”

“Fine,” I tell her grumpily, letting myself into my room as quietly as possible.

A quick look at the bed tells me Ash is still out cold. He’s spread out in the center of the mattress like a starfish, the sheets tangled around his waist, and there’s a part of me that wants to go to him. To kiss him and lick him all over.

So I do. To hell with packing. This is more important.

I crawl into bed next to him, press hot kisses over his pecs.

He smiles a little in his sleep, murmurs my name even as he wraps an arm around me and pulls me against his side.

Tears burn behind my eyes at the feel of him against me, and I blink them back for the second time this morning. I’m not going to cry, not now. Not when I don’t even know if there’s something to cry about.

Either way, pressed up against him like I am, it feels like there’s a reason. It feels like everything fragile and tenuous and beautiful between us is on the brink of ending. I know it’s stupid to feel like that—this was never supposed to be real, never supposed to last—but that doesn’t stop my heart from breaking wide open as I look at him. As I touch him, my hand running over the perfect muscles of his chest and stomach of its own volition.

Ash stirs, pulls me even closer. Presses kisses against my forehead, my cheeks, my mouth. I close my eyes and let him do it, relishing each soft brush of his lips. Knowing it might very well be the last. I need to wake him up, need to tell him what’s going on. And I will. Just not yet. Not yet.

I don’t know how long I lay there against him, basking in his warmth and comfort. Ignoring the fear and rage battling for supremacy inside me. Hating e

verything about myself, about my world, except for him. I do know that it’s long enough for the sun to creep across the horizon, for day to break—clear and beautiful—across the sky.

Ash’s phone vibrates from its spot on the nightstand, and he gropes for it blindly. Figuring it must be Logan, I snuggle deeper, close my eyes. And pretend the time I have left with this man—the man I love—can’t be counted in mere minutes.

But that’s not possible, especially not when Ash sits up in bed and rubs a hand over his face as if to wake himself up. Then he’s staring at me, those beautiful, blue eyes of his narrowed in concentration and disbelief, as he responds to the caller with one and two syllable answers. Words like what and how and when and fever pouring from his mouth. That’s when I know for sure it isn’t Logan he’s talking to. It’s Z.