Chapter 100 Whose Hand?

Chapter 100 Whose Hand?

Isabella's POV

The sharp smell of disinfectant mixed with bleach hit my nose, and all I could hear was the steady, monotonous beeping of the heart monitor.

A tearing pain shot through the back of my head, like some rusty tool was slowly grinding against my skull.

I used every ounce of strength to pry my eyelids open.

The fluorescent light overhead was too bright. I squinted instinctively, my vision blurry for several seconds. Everything was white—white ceiling, white walls, and a bag of clear IV fluid hanging by the bed.

"Isabella! Thank God, you're finally awake!"

I slowly turned my head, my neck stiff as hell.

My stepmother was leaning over my hospital bed, eyes red and swollen, tears streaming down her face. My dad stood behind her, gripping my hand tightly, his eyes bloodshot, his chin trembling slightly.

"Mom... what happened to me?"

"You fell from mid-air during rehearsal, sweetheart. The doctor said it's a moderate concussion. The back of your head split open—seven stitches. Luckily, no damage to the skull or nerves. You'll be okay."

Broken memories flooded back instantly.

"My violin!" I tried to sit up, but a wave of intense dizziness hit me, forcing me back down onto the pillow. "Where's my violin? And the Spring Gala performance—"

"Don't move! Just lie still!" Daisy quickly pressed down on my shoulders. "Your violin is fine. Elena came by herself and told me your position as concertmaster is secure, it won't change. But the doctor was very clear—you need two weeks of complete rest. No violin, no dancing, no strenuous activity at all."

Two weeks.

I closed my eyes in despair, feeling utterly helpless.

The room went quiet for a few seconds.

I opened my eyes again, my gaze sweeping over the empty corners of the hospital room. "Where's Maurice?" I asked softly.

Daisy's expression turned awkward instantly. She glanced at Milton, hesitating.

Milton let out a soft sigh. "Maurice is in a room downstairs. When he got to the hospital and saw you covered in blood being wheeled out, he completely lost it. Screaming, couldn't breathe, hyperventilated and passed out. The doctor gave him a sedative. He's still asleep."

I stared blankly at the ceiling, my emotions all mixed up.

I fell from high up, my scalp split open with seven stitches, the pain nearly making me pass out.

But my boyfriend, just from seeing me bleeding, fainted on the spot and needed a sedative to calm down.

"Isabella, don't blame him. He just cares about you too much, couldn't handle it for a moment..."

"I know." I cut off Daisy, closing my eyes, my voice tired. "I'm exhausted. I want some water."

"I'll go confirm your test results with the doctor and grab some hot soup downstairs." Milton patted Daisy's shoulder. "Come with me. Let Isabella rest quietly for a bit."

Daisy carefully tucked in my blanket and left the room with Milton.

The door closed, and the room fell completely silent except for the constant ticking of the heart monitor.

I stared at the ceiling in a daze, the wound on the back of my head throbbing with my pulse, each beat torture.

Click.

The door handle suddenly made a sound, and the hospital room door was gently pushed open.

I thought it was a nurse coming to change my dressing, so I didn't turn my head.

Then came heavy footsteps. Not the light sound of a nurse's rubber shoes, but military boots on tile floor—dull and clear.

The next second, I heard a crisp locking sound from the door.

Click.

He locked the door.

I whipped my head around.

Terrence stood in the middle of the room.

He looked terrible—not wearing his usual black leather jacket, just a black t-shirt, with large dark stains on his chest and stomach.

Was that my blood?

His eyes were bloodshot, covered in a web of red veins, his jaw shadowed with stubble, his whole body radiating suppressed, wild rage.

He stared at me intently, walking toward the bed step by step.

"Terrence..."

He didn't speak. He just pulled over a nearby chair and sat down, his knees almost touching the edge of the bed.

He slowly reached out his hand.

Those hands—calloused from years of handling equipment—were shaking noticeably.

This man who'd been grazed by bullets on the battlefield without flinching, who'd calmly stitched up his own arm with thirty-four stitches after being slashed, couldn't even steady his hand now.

His movements were incredibly gentle, carefully touching my cheek, deliberately avoiding the gauze on my head, his thumb lightly wiping away a bit of dried blood at the corner of my eye.

"Does it still hurt?"

"Like I got run over by a truck." I tried to smile but couldn't.

"Your violin is fine. I locked it in my trunk. Not a single string broken."

"Thank you, Terrence."

"Don't thank me! I thought I could avoid this. I moved back to the estate, didn't message you for a week. I thought if I stayed away from you, you could just be his girlfriend in peace."

His fingers slowly slid down my cheek, then suddenly gripped my chin firmly, forcing me to look directly into his eyes.

"But I was wrong. I kicked open that rehearsal room door and saw that Dustin fail to catch you, watched you hit the floor like a lifeless body, blood everywhere—"

He swallowed hard, the rage in his eyes barely contained.

"In that moment, I wanted to pull out my gun and take out everyone in that room."

Tears spilled out without warning, falling heavily onto his rough hand.

"It wasn't Dustin's fault..." I choked out.

"I know." He gently wiped away my tears with his thumb. "Elena told me everything. She also told me you need two weeks of rest."

"What about Maurice?" I asked quietly.

Just saying that name made Terrence's expression darken completely.

"Don't mention that waste of space in front of me." His voice dropped low, filled with barely controlled fury. "You were in the ER covered in blood, life hanging in the balance, and what was he doing? Downstairs passed out from fear. He didn't even have the guts to look at your wound. Does he even deserve to be called a man?"

I bit my lip hard, unable to speak.

Terrence suddenly stood up abruptly.

He leaned down, hands braced on either side of the bed, his large frame instantly casting me in shadow.

The closeness was unsettling.

"Elena gave me special permission. When you go back to rehearsal in two weeks, I can stay in the rehearsal room and watch over you the whole time. She knows better than anyone that Maurice can't take care of you."

The heart rate on the monitor beside the bed started climbing rapidly, out of control.

"What are you saying, Terrence?" My voice shook uncontrollably from the intensity.

"The game's over, Isabella."

He released one hand from the bed rail and reached behind my neck, his rough palm steadily cradling the uninjured part of my neck, the burning heat seeping through my skin directly into my bloodstream.

"I'm not handing you over to that coward anymore."

His face lowered closer and closer, his nose almost touching mine, his hot, heavy breath spilling across my lips.

"For the next two weeks, I'm moving back into that apartment. I'll cook for you, make sure you take your medicine, stay with you twenty-four hours a day until you're completely healed."

His thumb slowly traced my lower lip, the rough pad grazing the soft flesh, sending a tingling sensation shooting through my entire body.

I froze completely. As he leaned in, his solid thigh in black tactical pants pushed against the edge of the bed, pressing tightly against the side of my thigh.

And that hot, hard cock that had made me completely lose control in the parking lot—its outline was now pressing arrogantly against my hip bone through the fabric.

His cock was hard?