Page 21 of Life Or Death

My gaze focuses back on my friend, and I blink once as tears escape the corners of my eyes.

“I know,” she whispers. “I know it’s a lot. But you’re alive, Jess. You’re alive, and that’s all that matters right now.”

I’m alive.

That should be a relief, and yet, it’s not.

Just then Lucifer returns with a doctor in tow. Behind them, two nurses file in, one pushing a cart loaded with supplies, and anxiety grips me. I’m about to start counting when the doctor steps forward, calling me a name that doesn’t belong to me. A name I’m pretty certain belongs to the man who signs my paycheck.

But I don’t have time to harp on that or make sense as to why these people think I’m Lucifer’s wife because the doctor tells me he’s going to assess my breathing and remove the tube in my throat.

“Mr. Holland,” the doctor says, glancing at Lucifer. “We’d prefer if you both stepped out of the room while we do this. It can be a bit⁠—”

Lucifer cuts him off.

“I’m not going anywhere, and neither is she.”

The doctor flinches at Lucifer’s tone, and he opens his mouth to protest, but the words die on his tongue. His gaze bounces between the two nurses before he looks back at Lucifer and sighs.

“Fine. But I need you both to stand back and let us work.”

The nurses move in, and I feel hands on my face, adjusting the tape that secures the tube.

“This might feel strange,” one nurse says. “Just try to breathe normally.”

I feel something cold and foreign moving inside my throat. The nurse counts, and on three, she pulls. The tube slides out of my throat, and I immediately start to gag.

“There you go,” the doctor says, stepping forward. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

Every breath I take feels like I’m swallowing glass. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a hoarse whisper. My throat feels raw. I press my lips together, tears streaming down my face.

“Don’t try to talk yet,” the doctor says. “Your throat is going to be sore for a while. The tube was in for several days.”

My gaze darts to Tori, then to Lucifer. Several days? How long have I been here?

Suddenly the pain in my legs returns with a vengeance, and this time there’s nothing to distract me from it. I try to sit up, to look down at my legs, but my body is too weak. All I can do is lie there and feel it consume me.

A sob rips from my chest, and I use every ounce of strength I have to point to my legs.

The doctor gently peels the sheet away from my leg. My gaze drops, and I stare at the thick, white bandages that wrap around my toes and travel up to my thighs. I try to wiggle my toes, but I can’t.

Panic surges through me. “My . . . legs . . .”

“You have third-degree burns covering approximately thirty percent of your lower body. You’ve already undergone two surgical excisions and skin grafts.”

The doctor’s words bounce around inside my skull, but none of them stick. A million questions run through my mind.

Will I be able to walk again? When will the pain go away? How will I be able to work? I need to work. I can’t leave Tori hanging. She has a daughter to support.

But the questions don’t stop there.

Are there more burns?

Oh God.

My hand flies to my face, my fingers trembling as they trace the skin along my jaw, my cheekbones, my forehead. I feel stitches—rough, raised lines cutting across my skin. My breath hitches, and I look at Tori, my eyes wide with panic.

Tori opens her mouth, but it’s Lucifer who speaks first.