Savage Vandal (82 Street Vandals #1) - Heather Long Page 0,24

feel the wrap on it and how it extended over my foot.

Stiff didn’t begin to describe me. Every other time I’d woken, Vaughn had been here, a soothing presence in the dark, a melodious voice to chase away my nightmares and my protests. He told me very little, even while he spoke a lot. I half expected him to appear and begin stroking my hair again. I’d made it halfway to sitting by curling my abs, even as my chest and sides protested when I realized no, I wasn’t alone in the room.

There was an oversized chair in the corner turned slightly sideways so the guy sleeping in it could stretch his legs out onto the foot of my bed. The puddle of yellow light highlighted the stranger sprawled there. He had a notebook pressed against his bare chest. Paint splattered his arms, and there were some in his blond hair. His arms were thick with muscle, and what I could see of his chest promised the same, but his legs were leaner. More like a runner.

I made it all the way to sitting and took a moment to catch my breath. He let out the faintest of snores, and relief spilled through me. I didn’t know who he was or why he’d taken Vaughn’s place. I’d asked about Kestrel at one point, but I couldn’t remember his answer.

Pushing the blanket away slowly, I tried to keep my movements controlled. I didn’t know this latest keeper, but if I could manage to move and get on my feet, then I could get to that door.

Escape was the first item on my list.

The dull throb of my headache pulsed with every movement, as if a warning. While my stomach didn’t lurch and the room didn’t waver, I paused frequently to let the pain ease back before I got my legs out and I stared down at my ankle. It had been taped well, and the bandage circled the arch of my foot to give it steadying support.

Unless I’d actually broken it, when I didn’t think I had, I should be able to walk on it. Besides, my chest burned with every breath I took that threatened to try and expand my abused ribcage.

How much worse could the ankle be?

I was wearing a T-shirt and nothing else.

That was a momentary flicker, but then I’d only been in a T-shirt in that clinic room I’d awoken in too. I didn’t feel any wetness on my thighs, and I had to pause right there at the edge of the bed and grip it with my right hand as I fought back the panic clawing up through my wheezing lungs.

There was no wetness. Not once had I woken to Vaughn in the bed with me. He’d always been next to it, and I’d been under the covers.

Head bowed, I forced deeper breaths. I couldn’t afford to freak out. Racing pulse and hot-cold sensation notwithstanding, I could do this. Up, Emersyn. On your feet. Focus on that step, then the next, and the one after that. Keep going until you can’t. Then get up and move some more.

The mental litany did the trick. My heart still beat too fast and I still wanted to gulp air like I was drowning, but dance was as much about controlling my breath as my body. I needed to get out of here.

Shooting a look over my shoulder, I checked that my blond guard hadn’t moved. The angle gave me a better look at him. There were definitely different colors of paint speckled over him, and one of his fingers was nearly blue like he’d been finger-painting. Or whatever.

His ripped jeans were also stained liberally with paint. The rest of him was bare, from his blond head to his tapered waist. He had tattoos too, but I couldn’t make them out as more than shadows on his skin.

I was pretty sure one was Celtic knotwork of some kind. I loved knotwork. I’d wanted one, but my body was always on display and why would I make a mess of it?

Yeah, not sure how they justified the bruises when that was the bullshit excuse about tattoos.

I was eighteen.

Fuck it. I’d go get one as soon as I got out of wherever the fuck here was. I didn’t have to follow the rules anymore.

Rising, I put most of my weight on the good ankle rather than the bad. No point in landing on my ass less than thirty seconds after I got