(Mara Luther)
Beep. Beep. Beep.
If the sound of machines screaming in slow motion had a fan club, I was currently the unwilling president. My head throbbed like it had personally offended someone, and my body felt like it had been chewed up and spit out by a blender set to emotional damage.
I blinked.
Once. Twice.
White ceiling. Fluorescent light. An IV drip hanging beside me like a tired party decoration. Oh. Hospital. Great.
I turned my head slightly and regretted it instantly. Pain shot down my neck like lightning on a vendetta. Everything was sore. Even my eyelashes hurt. I tried to move my arm and caught sight of the bandages — gauze wrapped like a gift no one asked for.
Classic Mara. Always bringing the drama. Well it did hurt like the devil.
My mouth was dry, my throat worse, and I swear I could taste blood and... burnt toast? Was that a stroke or just the hospital food?
A nurse walked past the door, didn't notice I was awake, and honestly, I didn't blame her. I probably looked like the ghost of someone who lost a fight with a garbage truck.
I closed my eyes again for a moment, hoping that when I opened them, I'd be somewhere else — anywhere else. Disneyland maybe. Somewhere people smiled and gave you cotton candy, not oxygen tubes.
When I finally sat up — barely — I muttered, "Cool. So this is hell's waiting room."
And right on cue, the door creaked open.
The nurse peeped in, chirping, "Oh good, you're awake. Someone named Saint John is here to see you."
A tall silhouette loomed behind her, bobbing his head. At the same time, we both sighed, "It's pronounced Sinjin." I let out a soft, reluctant chuckle.
Then he stepped in. St. John Draven. Tall, broad-shouldered, every inch the picture of infuriating perfection. His hair was slicked back, almost too neat, like he knew exactly how dangerously handsome he looked. Polished shoes that could bankrupt an ordinary person gleamed beneath him, and the faint smirk tugging at his lips was enough to make your skin crawl—and tingle.
His amber eyes landed on me, sharp and assessing, but just for a heartbeat, there was a flicker—a subtle, almost imperceptible shift of concern. The smirk softened ever so slightly, like he realized I wasn't exactly at my best.
He leaned slightly as he passed, close enough to brush against the air around me, radiating that magnetic, dangerous energy that made you want to roll your eyes and run at the same time.
"St. John," I called . Pronounced Sinjin, because of course it is. "If you're my welcoming committee, someone clearly hates me."
He rolled his eyes. "Do I look like I want to be here?" He quipped.
He stepped in with all the grace of someone used to red carpets and whispered invitations. When he was closer, his eyes softened. He looked genuinely concerned.
"Oh good," I croaked, "A pretentious British boy. My fairy godmother must hate me."
He smirked — or tried to — but it didn't reach his eyes. "Hello to you too, monster child."
I smiled faintly. "Still don't know my name I see,"
"It's Mara," he said softly, looking at me like the sound might break me.
Then, slipping back into character:
"Honestly, darling, you could've just texted me instead of orchestrating a near-death experience for attention. Very dramatic of you."
"There she is," I whispered, my voice a broken whisper of sarcasm. "Queen of the Trauma Ward."
His smile faltered.
He let out a breath. Then he sank into the chair beside my bed, running a hand through his perfectly maintained hair like it was the first time in years he didn't care if it stayed in place.
"I've never seen you like this," he said quietly. "Even that time you sprained your ankle during tennis practice in the third grade.... You swore vengeance on gravity. "
"Still considering suing gravity." I mumbled.
That got the faintest smile out of him. But it disappeared just as quickly.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers locked together. "I'm sorry, Mara. I know that doesn't mean much coming from me, but... I am. I tried to visit you yesterday but they wouldn't let me in. Said you were unconscious. Said you... That you-"
"Almost died?" I finished for him, voice dry and crackled like old paper.
His jaw visibly tightened but he didn't say anything. What was he not telling me?
He nodded, swallowing hard "Your mum would've killed me if I didn't check in on you."
Which reminded me, " Where are my parents?" I asked sitting up a little.
He froze.
The silence came before the answer and somehow that was worse.
He became a stuttering mess.
"I... I-uh... I... I haven't seen them yet," he finally managed to say. For some reason he fumbled with his ring.
He only did that when he was nervous.
And St John never got nervous. Not in public, not in front of people. Especially not with me of all people.
Something was wrong.
Before I could say anything, he got up.
He glanced at his watch, "Blimey... Would you look at the time."
"Monster child," he murmured, trying for humor but failing, "this is not funny." He said staring down at me. He really is concerned. "Feel better soon," he sighed searching for something in his pocket.
He brought out a silver trinket I'd recognize anywhere; it was a family heirloom!
Without hesitation, he snapped it around my neck.
I blinked. That thing had never left his wrist since he was ten.
"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice barely audible.
"Giving it to someone who needs it more." He said, avoiding my eyes.
I opened my mouth to protest and he placed his finger on my lips. He's never been this sentimental, ever.
He pecked my forehead gently.
"Happy birthday Mara." He ran his fingers through my hair.
"Thank you," I whispered in complete confusion as he walked out closing the door behind him.
That was really sweet and weird of him. I stared down at the trinket.
My fingers brushed the cold metal. I didn't understand.
He always had it on him. He said it helped him think less about his father's passing. Why did he give it to me?
A part of me — the part that always knew when something was wrong — suddenly felt very cold.