Chosen Mates, Stolen Fates
“Just get in here, already. I haven’t had visitors in days.”
Thomas was sitting up in his bed, propped handsomely with pillows on either side. I knew that he had broken several ribs himself and his lung had collapsed. He was seated bare-chested on his bed, a pair of hospital pants pulling tight across his muscular frame. Sensors were attached to half of his abdomen and chest on one side.
I approached the bed. “Nice to see you,” I said, extending a hand. “How are you healing?”
“Ribs are ok,” he rasped, then coughed. A wet sound gurgled from within. “But my lung isn’t quite back up to snuff yet. Something about drainage or something.” He coughed again, excusing himself.
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