The King's Prey

Chapter 14 | Friction

Prevaricate • [pre-veri-kate]
to avoid saying or doing something because you want to cause delay or hide the truth; to speak or write evasively.

꧁ ꧂

~ Anastasia ~

When I awaken, the wind's howling is what startles me to sit upright. I briefly examine the hospital room I've now familiarized myself with, not finding anything different from before I had fallen asleep aside from how dim it is now, meaning someone must have turned down the lights. But when I realize I have the urgent need to pee, I begin unraveling myself from the layers of blankets covering my lower half. Seeing my bare legs, though, brings back the faint reminder that I can't use the limbs. At least one of them, that is.

I search for the guard rail on the side of the bed and pull it up until it snaps into place. If one's working, that's enough for me, I tell myself. I'll hobble my way to the bathroom if I have to.

Carefully, I pull my legs to the side of the bed, grunting with the added gravity on my injured limb. I don't know how long I was asleep. Even with the clock hanging above the closed door, I'm not keeping track of the time. What I do know, though, is that it's some time in the middle of the night given the dark hue looming beyond the singular window in here.

Sliding my way off the bed, my socked feet press into the floor gently. But even with my careful maneuvering, my left leg's nerves contract violently against the hint of pressure. Though I have to bite back my involuntary whimper, I'm convinced I can reach the bathroom on my own.

White knuckles clench the railing. I inhale a long breath and stand, putting all my weight on my last good leg. Hot air shoots out of my mouth as my left leg becomes a deadweight, any functions from below the site of the injury completely imperceptible. But I pushed on.

I look for the next thing to grab nearby. A wall, a chair—anything, really. My eyes focus on the table with wheels beside my bed where I'd left my cup of water from earlier.

Perfect.

I hobble towards the end of my bed and grab the table with one hand, stabilizing myself before transferring the other. As I adjust myself to its mobile state, I practice using my mangled leg to keep me balanced while I make short, uncoordinated hops with the other. In no time, the agonizing technique has me several feet from my bed, but still many more feet from the bathroom door. My large T-shirt sways with every movement I make, doing little to hide the fact that no person—injured or not—should be walking like this. But if it does the job...

I feel my bladder press against my stomach, begging to find its release. Maybe I should've pressed the call button I saw on my bed's handy remote earlier. Then I could've gotten some actual assistance instead of being the stubborn bitch I am.

But I'm too far in to turn around now. I make another short hop, only moving a few inches with my rickety table that's now begun to shake because I'm shaking. Both from fear and weakness. Damn it. My left leg is practically dragging behind me at this point. I pull it forward and take in a shallow breath in hopes of calming myself.

A door clicks open behind me as quiet feet enter the room. My head shoots up to see who it is—whose steps are so soft and stealthy to the point of surprising someone.

I meet steel eyes and black hair. Pale skin compliments his already attractive features. I've seen this one before—seen this warrior of Samuel's in my room the first day I was in Phantomridge and again somewhere else that I can't recall. But he's familiar, nonetheless.