CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
safe and sound
“Heyyyy,” I say, sliding into the room. I’m so happy to see him, I can’t control the head-to-toe shaking.
I school my expression, trying like hell not to recoil or punch a wall in anger from the damage done to his beautiful face. Finan’s right eye opens; the left is swollen shut, the prior angry wound along the cheekbone now a line of perfectly placed black stitches, shiny with healing ointment. His heavily bandaged hands are propped on two pillows before him; even his fingers are covered. His hair and beard have been haphazardly cleaned—I know the doctors’ first priority was infection, but could they not have given him a sponge bath while he was under?
“They told me you were OK, but I needed to see for myself,” he says, his voice rough.
I lean in and
