Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 84864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Saint looked away.
I’d been loyal to Alek from the moment we’d awakened. That was my duty as an assassin, as a hunter, but my respect for him rose to new heights in that moment.
We planned out the rest of our evening and then broke apart. Because it’s what you need. Alek’s words stayed with me long after I headed out on patrol with Hawke.
Besides slaying Samuel for his betrayal, what the fuck did I need?
The answer was the opposite of Saint’s requirement.
I needed life.
The second the night air hit my face, I decided not only to go back to the hospital bench tomorrow night, but every night after until I saw her again.
Grace.
2
GRACE
“You see this dark mass right here?” Doctor Watson asks, pointing to the images of my brain hanging on her lightboard. “It’s as we’ve suspected.”
Glioblastoma.
A wave of numbness washed over me, skirting over my body like a cloud of mist.
“Huh,” I said, focusing on the black-and-white picture of my brain. I stood up and crossed the room, staring at the mass in my frontal lobe. “That little thing is causing all my problems?” I asked, shaking my head.
Doctor Watson pressed her lips together and nodded. “The headaches, nausea, dizziness. Even your instances of losing time or hearing things can be attributed to the tumor.”
I nodded, slow and languid, like a thick syrup coated my movements. This was the second opinion I’d gotten, and now I knew there was no denying it.
“There are treatments,” Doctor Watson said, settling on her rolling stool in the suddenly too-sterile hospital room. “There have been advancements with clinical trials for drug therapy after surgery, but as you know, the tumor isn’t one-hundred percent removable, since it grows directly into the brain tissue.”
“I know,” I said, my voice even as I continued to stand in front of that picture, staring at the little blob that was slowly killing me.
The same little blob that killed my mother when I was nine.
Flashes burst through my mind, images and memories that played like movie reels on repeat—my mother, vomiting because she’d sat up in bed too quickly, her skin stretching too tight over her bones after a round of radiation, the way her lips had thinned and even her smell of vanilla and sage had faded.
I used to love that smell, associated it with being home, being loved and cared for. Now, I associated it with a harsh, painful death, because that’s what happened to my mother when she started treatment.
“Grace?” Doctor Watson said my name like she’d said it a few times, and I turned my back on her lightboard, focusing on her. “When are you available to start?” she asked, glancing down at the clipboard in her lap. She traced her pin down a line of charts and words I’d never recognize. My doctorate was in psychology, not medicine. “The sooner we get you scheduled for surgery—”
“I won’t be having the surgery,” I said, earning a shocked look from her.
She’d been my doctor for the last few months as we worked to figure out what was causing all my symptoms…the nausea, the voices, but I’d known in my gut what the diagnosis would be. This form of cancer runs in the family, and even though I’d spent the rest of my youth in foster care, I knew I wouldn’t be able to outrun it.
“Grace,” Doctor Watson’s tone held that air of pleading I’d heard from her several times over the past few months. “This is fatal. Without treatment, you’ll have three months, maybe six tops, if you’re lucky.”
I huffed a laugh, shaking my head. “Luck has nothing to do with this situation, Doc.”
“I have to advise you to schedule surgery,” she pressed. “If we can remove a majority of the mass, then get you on drug therapy—”
“Then I’ll spend the last few months I have on this earth in even more pain than I am now,” I cut her off. “I’ll get a front-row seat to my own demise, all from the comfort of a hospital bed.” I shook my head, trying like hell to drown out the memories of my mother. God, I missed her. Even now, fifteen years later, I wish I could’ve made her last months a little better, a little more exciting. Instead, I’d sat next to her hospital bed and read her favorite book aloud. The treatment had stripped her of any strength she possessed, robbing her of a last-minute bucket-list adventure.
I would not go the same way.
And maybe, if there was a life after this one…maybe I’d finally get to see her again, tell her all about the brief life I’ve lived.
Doctor Watson flashed me a sympathetic look as she stood up, heading toward the door. “I will respect your wishes, Grace,” she said, hauling the door open. “But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”