Chapter 1055
The doctor had finished his checks, shining a penlight into Skye’s eyes and declaring her neurological responses a miracle. He left to process the paperwork, leaving the room in a heavy, pregnant silence.
Skye lay flat on the bed, feeling the scratchy hospital sheets against her skin. Every muscle in her body felt as though it had been beaten with a hammer.
Liam stood by the window, his back to her. He looked wrecked. He was wearing the same clothes from the night of the explosion, now stiff with dried blood and dirt. A thick, dark beard shadowed his jaw. He had lost weight in just a few days, his shoulders slumped beneath an invisible burden.
“Water,” Skye croaked, her throat burning with every syllable.
Liam turned instantly. He grabbed a plastic cup from the bedside table, his hands shaking so badly that water sloshed over the rim. He dipped a sponge swab into the cup and gently pressed it to her cracked lips.
The cool water was heaven. Skye swallowed painfully.
She looked up at his hollow eyes. “How long?”
“Seven days,” Liam said, his voice a raspy whisper. “You’ve been in a coma for seven days.”
Skye closed her eyes and let that sink in. Seven days in the void.
“Bastian?” she asked, forcing the name out of her raw throat.
Liam pulled the swab away. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking furiously beneath his beard. “Dead. He and I fought by the tank. He fell—his head hit the jagged edge of the shattered glass. He bled out before he could even try to run. His body was buried along with the ruins of the manor.”
Skye felt no joy. Only a cold, empty finality. The monster was dead.
She took a slow, shallow breath. The monitor beside her beeped steadily.
“Julian,” Skye said. Not a question this time. A demand.
Liam froze. The plastic cup crinkled under his sudden, crushing grip. He looked away, his gaze fixing on the blank wall above her head. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
He couldn’t look her in the eye. That was the answer.
“Tell me, Liam,” Skye whispered, tears already pooling in the corners of her eyes.
“He didn’t make it to the hospital,” Liam said, his voice cracking. He sounded like a lost child. “His heart gave out in the car. Alistair tried CPR, but… he was already gone.”
“Where is he?” Skye asked, her voice trembling.
“The Vance family took custody of the body immediately,” Liam said, still not looking at her. “The funeral was three days ago. A private ceremony.”
Skye stared at the ceiling. She had missed it. She hadn’t even been able to stand by his grave and say goodbye in the real world.
The grief didn’t hit her like a wave. It hit her like a concrete wall—crushing the breath from her lungs, leaving her numb and paralyzed. She didn’t cry. The pain was too deep for tears.
The heavy ICU door pushed open.