Chapter 5

Fawn’s POV

By mid-morning, I’d learned three things.

One: hospital gowns were designed by people who hated joy. I mean, who likes their ass on show? Unless you were a stripper, that is. I had never seen a stripper, but they did shake their bare asses in men’s faces from what I understand. It’s how they earned tips. I’m sure there was a lot more to it. Maybe in this life I should live a little and go see a show. 

Two: Fawn’s death day had been yesterday, so my soul had been in limbo until it had jump-started Cassie’s brain. I wondered if I had picked Cassie, or if the universe had given me the best vessel to achieve my revenge.

And three: the thing I hated the most, apparently, I was the new shiny toy in the hospital.

They came in waves.

Neurologist. Another neurologist. Some specialist from another hospital who “just happened to be here today” and wanted to “observe my case.” A junior doctor with a face full of acne and hero worship in his eyes. Two nurses who pretended to check my chart but were obviously just there to stare.

If one more person said the words remarkable recovery, I was going to shove a monitor up their arse.

“Reflexes look good,” one of the neurologists murmured, tapping my knee again so my leg bounced. “Muscle tone is… frankly astonishing, given the length of the coma.”

“You say that like I’m supposed to apologise,” I muttered.

He smiled absently, too busy being fascinated. “No atrophy. No contractures. Cognition intact. Language intact. This is, well… this is extraordinary.”

I felt like I wasn’t even there. I was just a subject to study.

Great. I was extraordinary… at least the word was different and not remarkable. Extraordinary. I couldn’t manage that when I was alive the first time as Fawn, but dying had really boosted my résumé. No, Fawn had been ordinary, missing the extra completely.

When the fourth different person in an hour came in to “just run through some quick checks,” I’d had enough.

“Okay, that’s it,” I snapped, yanking my hand away from the blood pressure cuff. “You’re no frigging baker and I’m no frigging dough. Stop poking me like you’re waiting for me to rise. Oops, I already did that… rise from the dead, that is.”

The junior doctor made a choking sound. The nurse at the foot of the bed looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her. The consultant blinked at me, genuinely confused.

“I’m only trying to help,” he said, that offended tone bleeding through. “We’ve never seen a recovery quite like this—”

“Yeah, and I’m sure that looks great on your research paper,” I cut in. “But I’m not a sideshow. I’m tired. My head hurts. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed sand.” Having a tube down your throat for six months would do that. “You want to stare at a miracle, go find a statue that cries blood. I just want five minutes without someone shining a light in my eyes. I already have a headache.”

Silence. Then, unexpectedly, a low sound of amusement from the corner.

Blake.

I turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow.

I’d almost forgotten he was there. Which was ridiculous, because he took up space without even trying. He was leaned back in one of the chairs, long legs stretched out, jacket buttoned again, tie straight now. There was something calming about having him there. I was sure if I’d been alone, I would have been freaking out.

He’d been here since I’d woken up… in Cassie’s stolen body.

I didn’t know why it surprised me that Blake stayed, but it did. A man like Richard didn’t like sickness. Blake? Still here. Still hovering like this was business he hadn’t finished.

From what I could piece together since waking up, Blake had just signed off to have Cassie’s life support turned off. His wife had been brain-dead. He’d been putting it off, not wanting to be the one to pull the plug, so to speak. All of this I’d picked up from hushed conversations the staff had around me, thinking I was brain-damaged or something and didn’t understand.

Was he going to whip out the divorce papers at any minute and make me sign them? No, that wasn't his style, I was pretty sure. Divorcing your wife the day she wakes up from the dead would be bad PA.

“She has a point,” Blake said, voice mild but cool. “You’ve drawn blood twice, scanned her twice, made her walk the corridor, tested her reflexes, memory, balance. How much more do you need before you write ‘we don’t know why she’s fine, but she is’ and let her rest?”

The consultant bristled. “Mr. Huntington, with respect—”

“I’m paying for all this,” Blake said, not raising his voice but somehow making the room feel smaller. “I’m not paying for you to run her into the ground on day one. Prioritise what matters. The rest can wait. She isn’t some act in a circus.”

It struck me then—he hadn’t just been hanging around like some guilty ex. He’d been guarding her. Was he feeling guilty for signing my death warrant? Cassie’s. This was getting confusing even in my own head.

It was interesting, though, that Blake had stayed with a woman he wanted to divorce.

The neurologist muttered something under his breath. “Alright, we’ll space the rest across the afternoon,” then left with his little herd.

Good.

The room fell quiet for the first time since the tests started.

I let out a slow breath. My head throbbed, but at least no one was waving a light pen in my face anymore.

“You’re enjoying this,” I said, turning my head to look at him.

Blake arched a brow. “Enjoying what?”

“Being king of the castle.” I waved a hand weakly. “Telling everyone what to do. Saving the poor, exhausted miracle patient from the big bad doctors.”

“There is nothing poor about you, Cassie. If I were enjoying it,” he said, “I’d have brought popcorn and just watched the show.”

“Don’t joke. I’d kill for popcorn.” I wasn’t joking. I was hungry.

That earned me the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Really, I would kill for any food… Do you think the medical staff want to put me back into a coma by starving me?”

God, he was hot. It was annoying. No one had the right to have cheekbones that sharp and eyes that cold and a mouth that somehow still looked like sin even when he was frowning.

Richard had been attractive in a polished, false way. Expensive suit, gym membership, nice smile he used like a weapon.

Blake looked like he’d been carved for war. Broader shoulders. Thicker wrists. Hands that looked like they could break things and fix them in the same hour. The kind of hot that made you think of bad decisions, locked doors, and sweaty, messed-up beds with tangled limbs.

My body—Cassie’s body—reacted to him in a way that felt unfair. A low thrum in my stomach. Skin too aware of the air between us. When his gaze dropped to my mouth, it felt like being touched.

He and Cassie would have made a smoking-hot-looking couple together.

I dragged my attention back to the ceiling.

Pretend. For a while. Remember? That did not mean getting involved with him. No matter how much this body wanted to.

“You could leave, you know,” I said after a minute. “You did your part. Watched me rise from the dead. Busy men like you have meetings to attend, millions to make, souls to crush. That sort of thing.”

Instead of being offended, he looked faintly amused. “Is that what you think I do all day?”

“How would I know? My memories are all over the place, remember.”

He studied me for a long beat, like he was cataloguing every answer, every flicker of expression.

“You really don’t remember the accident,” he said finally.

“I remember waking up in shock and you looking at me like I’d climbed out of your grave,” I said, my voice rough but steady. “The ‘accident’ part seems to be hiding behind a big fat nope.”

His eyes stayed on me in that unnerving way, like he was trying to peel back layers. “Earlier, you mentioned drowning,” he said. “A bath. That is not nothing.”

Of course, he wasn’t going to let that go. Why would he? I’d basically sat up from the dead and opened with… Hi, I’m crazy, nice to meet you.

I forced a small shrug, pretending it cost me nothing. “I also dreamed I was back in high school naked once. Doesn’t mean my teachers saw my arse. Brains make up weird horror shows when they’ve got nothing better to do. Apparently, my subconscious likes baths.”

His jaw tightened. He heard the deflection; I could tell he did. That didn’t mean I was going to stop.

“I just don’t want to be drowned again,” I added lightly. “Even in conversation. So let’s maybe not dwell on that part.”

He watched me for a long moment, and I had that odd sensation he’d see straight through me if I let him look long enough. Just one more reason not to.

A soft knock came at the door, saving me from having to keep a straight face any longer. A woman in navy scrubs stepped in, dark hair twisted into a bun that had been done three hours and forty patients ago.

“Mrs. Huntington?” she said, with that bright, gentle voice people use on children and people they think might start crying. “I’m Dr. Patel, from the psychiatric liaison team. Is it okay if we talk for a few minutes?”