The heavy, suffocating silence returned to the sterile hospital room the absolute second Marcus finally stepped out into the hallway to take a phone call.
Roxy lay perfectly still beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, her chest heaving with ragged, adrenaline-fueled breaths. The single word she had managed to croak out still burned raw in her throat.
Marcus had been furious, his dark eyes promising a lifetime of retribution, but he had been forced to leave the room to maintain his façade of the grieving husband for the doctors outside.
Now, she was alone.
Roxy focused entirely on the faint, ghost-like sensations echoing in her blood. The phantom scent of winter pine. The heavy, acoustic thrum of a willow drum. The miraculous, blistering heat of transmigrated tears.
