I stopped her.
“Wait.”
She turned back.
I swallowed against the pain in my throat. “Let him in.”
Her expression sharpened. “Amelia—”
“Not alone. You stay.”
She studied me for a long second, then nodded.
When the door opened, Cameron looked as though the night had carved pieces out of him.
His surgical cap was gone. His hair stood in uneven strands where he had run his hands through it. His white coat was wrinkled. There was a faint smear of something dark near his cuff, probably iodine, perhaps something else. His eyes were bloodshot.
Behind him, two security officers stood at the nurses’ station.
Cameron stepped into the room and stopped when he saw me awake.
His face crumpled.
“Amelia.”
He said my name as if it were a prayer.
I felt nothing.
No—that was not true.
I felt too much, but none of it moved toward him.
“You have five minutes,” Elena said.
Cameron looked at her sharply. “This is between me and my wife.”
“No,” I said.
His eyes snapped to mine.
My voice was hoarse, but steady.
“It became something else when you turned off my epidural, ignored medical advice, restrained me, and entered a false note into my chart.”
The color drained from his face.
He looked at Elena, then back at me. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand charts.”
“Amelia, I was scared.”
That almost broke something loose inside me.
