Sylvia woke to pain.
Her body seemed to have gathered a committee during her unconsciousness, and every part of it had arrived with complaints.
Her chest hurt. Her spine hurt. Her wrists ached as if she had spent hours gripping something too tightly. Her throat was raw, though she could not remember screaming past a certain point.
But the worst was her throbbing nape. It felt like something under her skin had grown roots while she slept and now pulsed there, new and hot and furious by existing.
Sylvia made a small sound.
The arm around her tightened immediately.
She froze. For one panicked second, she did not know where she was.
Then the scent reached her.
Antiseptic. Clean sheets. Medicine. Burned metal. Blood beneath bandages.
And Thomas.
Thomas, dark and warm and steady, surrounding her in a way that should have been impossible in a hospital bed designed for one injured person and absolutely not for a seven-foot commander with recently torn ribs.
