✰ Arabella ✰
"𝐁𝐞𝐭"
My eyes flitted open, adapting to the sudden brightness that surrounded them.
I slowly lifted my body, sitting up on my elbows. My head throbbed terribly during the process and I looked around with narrowed eyes.
It appeared to be a small medical room, or most likely the nurse's office.
I had snapped my eyes away and went to my side when I sensed movement.
Shock filled my expression when my eyes fell on Roman reclined in a seat across from me. His head fell to the side, leant against the wall with his eyes, fluttered closed.
"Roman?" I called, cringing once I heard the sound of my hoarse voice.
His eyes opened and he almost immediately turned to face me.
With his hand, he ran a hand through his curls and stood up from his seat.
He came next to me, placing his hand on my thigh and squeezing it soothingly while he brought his eyes to mine.
"How are you feeling?"
The heavy accent fell right off his tongue as he spoke, reluctantly making me sigh inwardly at the sufficient sound.
I shrugged half-heartedly and moved closer to the bottom of the bed.
"I guess I'm okay,"
My memories came back to me as soon as the words left my mouth, now reminding me why I was here in the first place.
As if he knew what I was about to ask, he spoke it for me.
"He's fine," He said and rubbed small circles on my thigh unintentionally making me warm-up, "The nurse cleaned him up. He's in the bathroom," he confirmed.
I instantly relaxed and nodded my head. I placed my head against his arm and started tracing the tattoos on the hand that laid on my thigh.
"Where's the other guy?" I mumbled, my thoughts being an already jumbled mess as I thought of my brother.
The hand on my thigh continued to soothe me while he replied nonchalantly.
"Hospital."
My head snapped up at a lightning speed in response to his words, which I quickly regretted. I groaned as my head spun and I grasped it in my palms.
I felt his hand move away from my thigh and towards my back, softly rubbing it in a pattern.
"Careful, Bellissima."
I sighed and very slowly, raised my head to look at him again.
"He's not dead is he?" I frowned.
YOU ARE READING
Lowkey
Lãng mạnArabella Malik, the lethal American mob boss's daughter. The beauty of the nineteen-year-old was well-known. Her hourglass figure and glowing grey eyes-which mirrored her father's, had practically everyone praising the ground she walked on. Arabella...