the vague shape of a woman. No … Anyone but her . Shane turned his face away, denial tearing at this soul. She couldn’t be here. Not now. “Shane? Can you hear me?” He groaned and covered his face. At least he attempted to. His right arm was too heavy to lift. He squinted hard and saw the fuzzy outline of a cast. Shit . He started taking inventory of his available body parts. At least the ones that would respond. He couldn’t feel a thing from his waist down and he damn sure wasn’t about to look. He was horrified that he might see an empty space where his legs should be. Shane dragged his good hand over his face and pulled himself out of the despair that threatened to pull him back under. He blinked several times, trying to clear hisvision. Disappointment threatened to choke him. “Shane?” Jen stood at the edge of his bed, near his hip. Her image kept fading in and out of clarity but during a single moment of lucidity, he saw what he’d been afraid of written across her face. Great. Fucking sympathy. Just what he wanted. “The fixators holding your legs together are going to hurt for a while.” Her voice was soft, like a pillow after a hard day. “You need to tell us so we can stay ahead of the pain.” Fury sparked to life inside of him, crashing through the haze of drugs. “Do I look like I’m in fucking pain?” He was used to the way his men reacted to his temper. But Jen? She simply folded her arms over her chest and stood near that damned sheet, watching. Waiting. “You don’t have to be an asshole.” Shane couldn’t look at her. Not again. He couldn’t bring himself to look up at her and see pity staring back at him. “I’m fine.” “No, you’re not.” He turned his face away, unwilling to look into those dark eyes and see the remains of himself reflected back at him. He heard the tink of glass against a tray, and something hot crawled up his arm. Fuck, more drugs. Which meant sleep. It was a reprieve from the incessant dreams of fire burning around his platoon while Shane could do nothing but watch his men burn. He didn’t deserve the reprieve. The pain was his punishment for fucking up and getting hurt. The drug slithered through his veins, wrapping around his brain like a warmblanket fresh from the dryer. He hated it. He didn’t want to feel, didn’t want to think. He just wanted to drop into that hollow morphine cloud and sink straight to hell where he belonged. Maybe then the burning failure in his heart would stop bleeding out.
Chapter 6 Four days had passed since Shane had arrived. Four days of silence and avoided looks and hostile body language. He barely ate. She wasn’t sure if he slept. But the silent treatment he’d offered her didn’t match the reports from the rest of the nurses. The reports of violent outbursts. Of thrown medical equipment. But whenever she was in the room, she’d been treated to nothing but stone silence. So when Jen heard a loud crash from her perch at the nurses’ station, she knew exactly where it came from. She rushed toward the noise, doing her best not to outright run. She shoved the door to Shane’s room open as the crash cart slammed into the stainless-steel sink. Blood welled from the open IV puncture wound and dripped down his arm. Shane’s face was contorted, a battle between determination and pain tearing across his hard features. The veins in his forearm bulged against his black tattoos as he tried to maneuver himself into the overturned wheelchair wedged beneath the bed rail. “Shane!” Silence hung heavy and thick as he froze. He lifted his gaze. I’m not nice . She hadn’t believed him when he’d told her that. Holy crap, had she been wrong. The muscles in Shane’s neck corded tight. For a moment, she was sure he would ignore her and drag himself farther out of the bed. Time hung suspended. His jaw pulsed and he gripped the rail as a wave of pain shuddered through his body. “Don’t touch