Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
There’s a hiss something leaking. A crackle of electricity or fire or something worse.
I try to move. I can’t. My hands won’t respond. My legs feel distant. My head throbs with a pressure so intense it feels like it might burst.
I blink hard, trying to clear my vision. The world swims. My thoughts scatter.
Riot.
I should have—He didn’t—Maybe— I should have kissed him once more.
The pain swells, blinding, and everything inside me throbs with one instinct, don’t give up.
Stay awake.
Don’t slip.
Don’t let go.
But the shadows pull harder.
The last thing I feel is the cold brush of glass against my cheek and the distant rhythmic wail of a siren.
Not close. Not fast enough.
Then the world goes dark.
I wake to voices. Muffled. Distant. Floating.
“…blood pressure stabilizing…”
“…contusions on the left side…”
“…possible concussion…”
“…keep her under observation…”
My eyelids feel glued shut. I try to lift them, but they barely flicker. My head pulses with a dull, heavy ache.
A soft beeping nearby counts each heartbeat. A sharp antiseptic smell fills my nose.
Hospital.
I’m in a hospital.
A wave of nausea rolls through me as the memories come in jagged, broken flashes.
The truck. The scream. The impact.
I gasp, eyes flying open.
Everything is too bright. Too white. Too loud. A blurry figure leans over me. A nurse, I think. Her voice is gentle, soothing.
“Hey, honey. You’re awake. That’s good. You’re safe.”
Safe. The word seems foreign.
My throat feels raw when I try to speak. “Wh… what happened?”
“You were in a car accident,” she says, adjusting my IV. “You’ve been unconscious for several hours.”
Her tone is calm, careful.
Too careful.
Fear curls in my belly.
“I—” My voice cracks. “I need to call someone.” Things feel confusing. Like I should know something and this should make sense, but nothing feels right.
She hesitates. “Your emergency contact was already notified.”
My stomach sinks. “Who?” I whisper.
Before she can answer, footsteps echo in the hallway. Heavy. Familiar.
But I don’t know why they’re familiar. The door bursts open, and a man fills the doorway — tall, broad shoulders, dark hair, patched cut, eyes like a storm barely held in check.
He looks like someone carved him out of every bad decision I’ve ever been tempted to make.
He looks dangerous and devastated.
When his eyes land on me, something in his expression breaks wide open.
But I don’t recognize him.
He strides toward me, chest heaving, jaw tight, like he’s holding himself together with pure force of will. “Kelly,” he rasps, voice rough and thick with something I can’t name.
My breath stutters. His presence is overwhelming, yet familiar in a way that’s frightening.
The nurse steps between us instinctively. “Sir, I need you to stay calm.”
He barely hears her.
His eyes stay locked on mine.
I search my memory, my whole life, for a place to put him.
A name. A moment. Anything. There’s nothing.
My voice is barely a whisper. “Do,” I pause not wanting to upset him, “do I know you?”
He stops dead.
Like I hit him. Like I reached into his chest and tore something out.
His face goes still. Too still. Then, quietly—so quietly I almost miss it—he says:
“Yeah, sunshine.” His voice cracks. “You know me.”
I blink, confusion swirling. “I’m sorry. I don’t, I don’t remember.”
His eyes close for a split second, pain cutting through him like a blade. When he opens them again, something fierce, desperate, and broken flickers there.
The nurse touches my arm gently. “Kelly, you sustained a head injury. It’s possible you’re experiencing temporary memory loss.”
Memory loss.
My chest tightens. My breathing turns shallow again.
The man takes a small step forward, but stops when the nurse lifts a hand.
“Just tell me she’s okay,” he murmurs.
The nurse nods. “Physically, she’s stable. We are still assessing the extent of her injuries.”
He lets out a breath, shoulders sagging in relief — but his eyes never leave mine.
I try again. “Who… who are you?”
He swallows hard. “I’m Ledger.”
The name hits me like a foreign sound. Heavy. Loaded. Important. Except I don’t know why. I don’t know him.
But he looks at me like I’m his whole world.
And I feel deep in the hollow center of my chest that losing my memories might not be the worst part.
The worst part might be forgetting him. Whoever he was to me…Whoever I was to him… That connection is gone.
His voice breaks as he says, “I’m here. I won’t leave.”
And even though I don’t know him, don’t remember him , something warm flickers low inside me.
A strange pull.
Familiar.
Wrong.
Right.
Everything all at once.
My voice is small. “I’m scared.”
His jaw tightens, and for a second he looks like he’s fighting his own damn heartbeat. “You’re safe,” he says, stepping closer. “I promise.”
But promises from strangers are dangerous things.
And right now?
He is the most terrifying stranger I’ve ever seen, and the only one my body seems to trust anyway.
Five
Ledger
Shattered
* * *
There are a lot of ways a man can get gutted. Steel. A bullet. A fist. A betrayal. But nothing—absolutely nothing—cuts as deep as when Kelly looks me dead in the eyes and asks a question she’s never asked me before.