chapter 169

chapter 169
Grace's POV:
Maverick's chest rumbled beneath my cheek—a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren't so weak, so threaded with exhaustion.
His arm tightened around my waist, and I felt the tremor in his muscles, the effort it cost him to hold me even this loosely.
"Alright, alright," he murmured, his voice still that devastating rasp of gravel over velvet. "I was wrong. When I'm healed, you can have your revenge—do whatever you want with me in bed."
I pulled back sharply, staring at him in disbelief.
He had the audacity to smile—that slow, knowing curve of his lips that had always made my stomach flip—even now, even lying in an ICU bed with tubes threading into his veins and bruises blooming across half his face like dark flowers.
"You—" I sputtered, heat rushing to my cheeks despite my exhaustion, despite the terror that still hadn't fully released its grip on my chest. "You just woke up from a coma, and this is what you're thinking about?"
"I'm thinking about you," he said, as if that explained everything, as if that made it perfectly reasonable. "I'm always thinking about you."
I pressed both palms against his shoulders and pushed myself upright, needing distance, needing to not be wrapped in his arms while he made jokes about—
"Hsss—"
The sharp hiss of pain cut through my indignation like a blade.
I froze, my hands still pressed against his shoulders, and watched the color drain from his face. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck going taut, and for one horrible moment I saw the mask slip—saw the raw, genuine agony that he'd been hiding behind his smirks and his teasing.
"What is it?" The words tumbled out of me, panic flooding back in a cold rush.
I yanked my hands away as if his skin had burned me, hovering uselessly over him, afraid to touch, afraid to make it worse. "Where does it hurt? Maverick, tell me—"
"My heart," he managed, and even through the obvious strain in his voice, I could hear the thread of amusement. "It hurts right here." He lifted one hand weakly to press against his chest. "Every time you pull away from me, it—"
"Maverick Cross."
I said his name like a curse, like a prayer, like a threat all wrapped into one.
"Stay still," I ordered, and my voice came out shakier than I intended. "Don't move. I'm getting the doctor."
I didn't wait for his response. I was already moving toward the door, my legs unsteady beneath me, my heart pounding against my ribs with residual fear that refused to fully dissipate. The hallway outside the ICU room was quiet at this hour, bathed in the soft blue glow of emergency lighting, and I found the nurses' station within moments.
"He's awake," I said, and my voice cracked on the words. "Maverick Cross—he's awake, and I need someone to check him, please—"
The nurse was already moving, reaching for the phone, and within minutes, Dr. Hayes appeared, who had been overseeing Maverick's care since the moment he'd arrived.
I followed him back into the room and positioned myself in the corner, arms wrapped tight around my own torso, watching as Dr. Hayes conducted his examination with methodical precision.
The penlight first, sweeping across Maverick's eyes.
"Follow the light, please. Good. Pupil response is normal."
Then the reflex tests—tapping at his knees, his elbows, checking the pathways of nerves that the impact might have damaged.
Maverick submitted to it all with uncharacteristic patience, though his gaze kept drifting toward me, tracking my position in the room as if he couldn't bear to let me out of his sight for even a moment.
"I'm going to check the surgical site now," Dr. Hayes said, and he lifted the edge of Maverick's hospital gown to reveal the bandages wrapped around his abdomen. I caught a glimpse of white gauze, the faint rust-colored stain of old blood, and I had to look away, my stomach turning.
The sound of tape peeling. A moment of silence. Then Dr. Hayes spoke again, his tone clinical but reassuring: "The incision is healing well. No signs of infection, no excessive inflammation. Your vitals are stable—blood pressure and heart rate are both within acceptable ranges."
I exhaled slowly, feeling some of the tension drain from my shoulders.
"He's going to be alright?" I asked, and I hated how small my voice sounded.
Dr. Hayes straightened, pulling the gown back into place and offering me a gentle smile. "He's remarkably fortunate, Miss White. The structural integrity of his vehicle absorbed most of the impact. As it stands, he'll need approximately one month of rest to allow the surgical wounds to fully heal. No strenuous activity. But barring complications, he should make a complete recovery."
"You hear that?" Maverick's voice cut through my thoughts, that familiar edge of arrogance creeping back in despite his weakened state. "I'm indestructible."
"You're lucky," Dr. Hayes corrected mildly. "There's a difference."
I almost laughed—almost—but the sound caught in my throat, transforming into something dangerously close to a sob. I pressed my hand over my mouth and turned away, struggling to compose myself while Dr. Hayes finished his notes and quietly excused himself from the room.
The door had barely clicked shut behind him when a soft knock sounded against the frame.