The first thing Sabrina felt was the sterile chill of hospital air against her skin. Her eyelids were heavy, lashes fluttering against the dim light above. She turned her head slightly, wincing at the dull ache in her temples.
Then she saw him.
Brace Donovan, slouched in a chair beside her bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed in exhaustion. His hands were clasped together as though he’d been praying—or bargaining with someone only he could hear.
She thought, for one fragile moment, that she was dreaming. That her mind had conjured him the way it sometimes did late at night when she longed for the sound of his voice.
But then he looked up.
And the reality in his eyes—tired, raw, but still so fiercely hers—told her this was no dream.
“Sabrina,” he breathed, the tension in his shoulders
