Fire and Stardust

Chapter V

"Morning, sunshine."

That voice... I never thought I'd hear it again.

I rush to sit up, familiar arms wrapping around me and settling me back down. I catch a whiff of coconut that stirs up memories as I allow myself to relax against the dark orange pillows of the bed.

Sure enough, my disbelieving eyes land on a figure slightly taller than my own. His black hair is just as ruffled as I remember it and his steely gray eyes sparkle with warmth.

There's a smile in the set of his lips that puts me at ease-- until I remember the events that led me here. The Den. The explosion. The White Wolves.

"Lars is dead," I breathe out shakily. Lars is dead, I don't even know the full extent of Ellis's injuries from the fight with Liam, and the last thing I remember is passing out from blood loss. From the knife in my thigh...

I look down at the striped brown blanket covering my legs in trepidation. I'm certainly in pain, though not an unbearable amount; not nearly as much as I should be feeling, considering the stress I'd put my body through in the past day.

Wow. Only a day and my life completely changed...

He nods, the happiness and excitement fading from his expression. "I know. The Den is gone, Hal."

Unbidden tears gather in my eyes. In my teenage years, I hated that place so much; hell, I wanted to destroy it. But recently, it was hope for a safe future, for a life away from the gang.

His hand gently finds my own, rubbing soothing circles along my bruised knuckles. The calming sensation is worth the brief twinges of pain.

"And Ellis?"

He chuckles. "He's doing good. His shoulder is healing nicely and you--" he pauses to lean closer to me-- "are lucky that I'm a gang medic and have seen worse injuries than yours."

    I bat him away. "Shut up, Asher. What did you expect? It's just like our recruit days."

At this, he openly laughs. A brief silence descends over us where he's just drawing lines on the back of my hand, both of us lost in memories.

"Am I all clear to shower, doc?" I finally ask.

He nods and pulls away. "Yep. Just be careful with your stitches, and you'll have to take off your makeshift cast. I can help you put it back on when you're out."

With slight difficulty, I grab the duffel by the bed and make my way to the bathroom. I'm limping a little bit, but I suspect my pain is dulled by the medication Asher must've given me while I was unconscious.

Once I peel off the bloody exercise pants and gray shirt, I study the angry red marks marring my skin.

My throat is a blotchy pink and my back has a set of long, scabbing scratches-- both injuries presumably from my fight with the bodybuilder, which seems so long ago with everything that transpired after.

My wrist, after I unwrap the bandages acting as a cast, is a disturbing shade of purple, as is my knee, though the latter is only bruised. I assume it was dislocated or out of place somehow before Asher fixed it.

Stitches adorn my side and my thigh. As I study the wound on my leg in the light, I realize that it couldn't have pierced my femoral artery at the angle it's at, which is probably the reason I'm still alive.

On the minor side, I can feel a bruised rib or two, my knuckles are bruised to all hell, my palm and fingers are sliced up, and my temple has a butterfly bandage adorning it.