Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,199

them; they’re here for Ray. Taking Ana’s hand, I guide her back to one of the seats and sit down beside her. “Have you eaten?”

She shakes her head.

“Are you hungry?”

She shakes her head.

“But you’re cold?” I ask, catching another whiff of José’s jacket. She nods and wraps the offending garment more snugly around her. The door opens and a man in scrubs enters—dark-haired, tall, and with a weary air of battle fatigue; his expression is grave.

Shit.

Ana stumbles to her feet, and I stand quickly to steady her. All eyes in the room are on the young doctor.

“Ray Steele,” Ana says with quiet trepidation.

“You’re his next of kin?” the doctor asks.

“I’m his daughter, Ana.”

“Miss Steele—”

“Mrs. Grey,” I mutter, correcting him.

“My apologies,” the doctor stammers. “I’m Dr. Crowe. Your father is stable, but in critical condition.”

Ana crumples in my arms as the doctor delivers each blow about Ray’s condition. “He suffered severe internal injuries, principally to his diaphragm, but we’ve managed to repair them, and we were able to save his spleen. Unfortunately, he suffered a cardiac arrest during the operation because of blood loss. We managed to get his heart going again, but this remains a concern.”

Jesus!

“However,” Dr. Crowe continues, “our gravest concern is that he suffered severe contusions to the head, and the MRI shows that he has swelling in his brain. We’ve induced a coma to keep him quiet and still while we monitor the brain swelling.”

Ana gasps, sagging against me some more.

“It’s standard procedure in these cases. For now, we just have to wait and see.”

“And what’s the prognosis?” I ask, trying to mask the distress in my voice.

“Mr. Grey, it’s difficult to say at the moment. It’s possible he could make a complete recovery, but that’s in God’s hands now.”

“How long will you keep him in a coma?”

“That depends on how his brain responds. Usually seventy-two to ninety-six hours.”

“Can I see him?” Ana’s breathless with anxiety.

“Yes, you should be able to see him in about half an hour. He’s been taken to the ICU on the sixth floor.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Dr. Crowe nods a good-bye and leaves us.

“Well, he’s alive,” Ana whispers, trying to sound hopeful, but tears pool in her eyes and spill down her ashen face.

No. Ana, baby. “Sit down,” I tell her, easing her back to the seat.

“Papa,” José says to his father, “I think we should go. You need to rest. We won’t know anything for a while. We can come back this evening, after you’ve rested. That’s okay, isn’t it, Ana?” José turns to Ana.

“Of course,” she responds.

“Are you staying in Portland?” I ask, and José nods. “Do you need a ride home?”

José frowns. “I was going to order a cab.”

“Luke can take you.”

Sawyer stands, while José looks confused.

“Luke Sawyer,” Ana says.

“Oh. Sure. Yeah, we’d appreciate it. Thanks, Christian.”

Ana offers Mr. Rodriguez a careful hug, and a less careful one to José. He whispers in her ear, but I’m close enough to hear. “Stay strong, Ana. He’s a fit and healthy man. The odds are in his favor.”

“I hope so,” she replies, her voice distressingly small. Her words slice through me like a scythe, because there’s nothing I can do to help. She shrugs off José’s pungent jacket and hands it back to him.

Thank God.

“Keep it, if you’re still cold,” he offers.

“No, I’m okay. Thanks,” she says, and I take her hand. “If there’s any change, I’ll let you know right away.”

José gives her a faint smile and wheels his father toward the door that Sawyer props open. Mr. Rodriguez raises his hand, and José stops. “He’ll be in my prayers, Ana.” The older man’s voice cracks. “It’s been so good to reconnect with him after all these years. He’s become a good friend.”

“I know,” Ana says, her voice strained with emotion.

The three of them exit, and we’re finally alone. I caress her cheek. “You’re pale. Come here.” Taking a seat, I gather her onto my lap, folding my arms around her. She burrows into my chest, and I kiss her hair.

We sit.

Together.

Each of us with our own thoughts.

What do I say to comfort her?

I have no idea. I’m helpless and I hate it.

Taking her hand, I offer her what I hope is a reassuring squeeze.

Ray is a strong man. He’ll pull through; he’s got to.

“How was Charlie Tango?” she asks eventually, and I marvel that even in this situation she’s thinking of me. I think my spontaneous grin is answer enough.

My EC135 is back. And what a joy she was to fly.