I’m in the back of the ambulance with Ryder. I lied and told them I’m his fiancée. I hold his hand while the paramedic hooks up an IV to his limp hand. He’s so pale that he hardly looks like the man that carried me to the shower this morning and held me up against the wall while we made love. His foot is twisted at such an odd angle that it makes my knees weak. His face is so bloody I don’t know where he’s injured.

I watch in silence, glancing at the paramedic’s face every now and then for a clue as to what’s happening. She looks at me and offers me a reassuring smile, but there’s nothing convincing about it. Tears slide down my cheeks, but I don’t bother to wipe them away.

We reach the hospital in what seems like two minutes. Or is it two hours? I have no clue right now. All I know is that I found the perfect love and after only three days, I might lose him.

The back doors swing open and a team of doctors and nurses wait, their expressions grim and urgent. I hear words like ‘surgery’ and ‘brain bleed,’ and it’s all I can do not to throw up. Two of the doctors climb into the back of the ambulance and help the paramedic roll the bed out and into the building.

I sit, completely numb and not knowing what to do. Somehow, I end up in a hallway on a soft chair. The buzzing from the fluorescent lights is the only sound. I watch the sky outside the window grow dark as I pray that he’ll come back to me. That he’ll be all right. That we’ll have our happily ever after.

I wake to the feeling of someone shaking my shoulder. I open my eyes to see an older woman in scrubs crouched down in front of me. A mask hangs down around her neck, splattered with blood. “You’re waiting for Ryder West, right?”

I nod, then rub my eyes, my stomach lurching. I search her face for some clue, but she doesn’t give anything away.

“I’m Dr. Parker. I was one of the neurosurgeons that worked on him. He survived the surgery, but I’m afraid he’s not out of the woods yet. We have him in an induced coma while we monitor the swelling in his brain. He’s in recovery right now, but we’ll be moving him to intensive care in a couple of hours.”

I try to make sense of what she’s saying, but I’m so groggy and scared, I can hardly understand her. “Will he…”

“It’s too early to tell. We did everything we could and we’re going to be watching him closely in case he needs another surgery.”

“Okay,” I answer, even though none of this is even remotely all right about this.

“Why don’t you go get some sleep. You could come back in the morning when he’s in the ICU. I’ll let you sit with him then.”

Shaking my head, I say, “He and I have a deal. I go where he goes.”

She nods and pats my leg. “I thought as much.” She stands. “He’s a fighter, that one. He should be dead but he isn’t, and in my experience men like him with something to live for tend to beat the odds.”

* * *

It’s almost twelve hours before I’m allowed to see him. When I open the door to the room, it’s the beeping from the machines I notice first. Then it’s his bruised and swollen face, the bandages wrapped around his head, the IV poking out of his arm and hand. His leg is in a cast that goes down to his toes, which are exposed.

Something about the sight of his toes breaks me. They’re bruised and they look so cold to me. My eyes fill with tears and I wipe them away. Crying won’t do any good. Right now, he needs to hear my voice. He needs to know I’m here waiting and that he’s going to be just fine. I walk over to him and put my hand on his toes as gently as I can. They’re not cold to the touch but instead are hot to the touch. I move up to his side and put my hand on his left arm. It seems like the only place on his body that isn’t bandaged, bruised or stitched up.

I take a deep breath, then find my voice. “Well, that was some ride. I thought you were a professional.” My joke gets caught in my throat and I break down, sitting on the chair next to his bed. “Ryder, please don’t leave me. I’m going to love you for the rest of my life and you better damn well be here for it.”

He stirs just the tiniest bit. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking because he doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t say my name. And I’m terrified he never will again. I climb into the bed next to him and snuggle into his side.

When I speak, it’s in a whisper. “You better not die on me. We have a deal, remember? Where I go, you go.”