Veil Bed Hospital Novels & Stories

I was flat on my back in bed, in a room I didn’t recognize. “Lee, you have to stop this habit of waking up in unfamiliar places,” I mumbled to myself. I looked around. The wall at the head of my bed was cream and there was a curtain around my bed. I reached out and pulled it. Behind it were a couple of other beds. I looked myself over; I was in a gown, covered in a blanket with a huge symbol on it. I was in the hospital.

She had to be prepared mentally and physically for anything worst that might happen. Suzie wasn't in the mood to check her room and her dress anymore and left the main mansion. She had a lot to think about. ..... The continuous rhythmical beat of the body monitor rang in the room. This was a VIP room that has its own living room and kitchen. The curtain was drawn blocking the sunlight. There was a man lying on the hospital bed peacefully. A little later, his eyelashes moved. His fingers flinched one by one. At the next moment, the trembling eyelashes finally moved up and two dark pools were revealed behind.

‎Light floods my vision instantly, making me wince. ‎Everything is blurry at first. ‎White ceiling. ‎Soft gray walls. ‎A large window with pale morning light bleeding through the curtains. ‎It takes several seconds for my vision to fully adjust before I realize I am lying in a hospital bed. ‎Private room. ‎Private wing. ‎Of course. ‎Romanov money could probably buy an entire hospital if they wanted. ‎My head turns slightly. ‎Flowers. ‎So many flowers. ‎Bouquets cover nearly every available surface in the room. White roses. Lilies. Orchids. Expensive arrangements tied with silk ribbons. Cards rest beside them, some handwritten in elegant calligraphy I do not bother reading.

The room tilts slightly but I ignore it. “That’s not the point.” “Then what is?” I stop a few feet away from her. “You stayed.” Her brow lifts slightly. “Yes.” “You didn’t have to.” “No.” “You saved my life.” Silence. “That doesn’t mean I’m staying.” I open my mouth to argue— And that’s when I see it. The blood. Dark against the fabric near her ribs. My focus sharpens instantly. “You’re hurt.” She doesn’t even look down. “It’s old.”

A basin of warm water on the bedside table. And the bed— The bed is massive, with carved posts and gauzy curtains that flutter in the faint breeze from the balcony doors. The coverlet is deep blue velvet, trimmed with silver thread, and the pillows look like clouds made solid. I take a cautious step toward it, almost afraid I’ll sink through the illusion and find myself back in the cellar. I climb in slowly, savoring the way the mattress gives beneath me, the way the sheets feel cool and sleek against my skin. I run my hands over the embroidered pattern, half waiting for someone to barge in and scold me for touching what isn’t mine.

Compared to the depths of the coliseum, the hospital is like a five-star hotel. The hospital bed is plush. The room is relatively private, with just a few doctors and nurses coming in and out now and then. They even give me food that tastes fresh, not moldy, and hot or cold water whenever I ask for it.

Markham Rehab Hospital, VIP Ward The rhythmic beeping of the ventilator filled the quiet room, mingling with the faintly nauseating scents of disinfectant and fresh flowers. Inside the large private room, surrounded by stark white walls, Liam sat on a chair beside the bed, his gaze fixed on the unmoving figure lying peacefully before him. Despite the mask covering her face, she looked beautiful, her features well-kept, her radiant skin and long lashes resting delicately on her cheekbones—a sign that she had been well cared for over the years.

The kind of monitoring equipment that came with a price tag most hospitals couldn't afford. I opened my eyes. The ceiling was not the ceiling of the Hirslanden oncology ward. It was higher, for one thing. It soared above me with crown molding and a central medallion around a crystal chandelier that cast prisms of light across silk wallpaper in a shade of pale gold. The bed I lay on was not a standard hospital bed but a medicalized luxury platform, with Egyptian cotton sheets and a mattress that cradled my body like a cloud. A luxury private suite. The kind of suite that heads of state and billionaires occupied when they needed medical care and refused to compromise on aesthetics.

Charlie stepped toward it and felt her skin prickle, the same electric pressure she felt before a storm breaks. "What is that?" she whispered. "A ward," Wren said. "My mother specializes in them." "You didn't mention she's a witch." "She's not." Charlie gave him a look. "Wren, this is witch behavior." "She's... something else." Before she could demand clarification, Wren lifted his hand and pressed his palm to the veil. The barrier rippled like disturbed water, then parted, revealing a narrow passage of swirling silver light. Wren gestured. "After you."

I say, which is not true in any legal or biological sense and which is the truest thing I have said in months. The doctor considers this for a moment and then she says, "She's in room four. She's been in and out. Don't stay long." The room is very white and very quiet and Vivian is in the bed with the specific diminishment that hospital beds produce, making the person in them look smaller than they are, and there is a bandage at her temple and her hands are wrapped and the monitors are doing their steady beeping work. I stand in the doorway for a moment.