Lindsay got herself hurt on an assignment… and then healed in a matter of hours?
From Ch. 8 of Book 2
When I woke up, Brett was sitting in the corner of the room, staring at me, his jaw clenched, his hands balled up into fists, trying not to jump every time I took a breath. I knew this without even opening my eyes, and that was something new. I’d never been able to see with my eyes closed before. It was like I could see him through my eye-lids: I could see his aura, his energy, in the shape of his body, a deep colbalt blue the color of his eyes. I kept breathing, slowly feeling the stress lift from my body like smoke. As I relaxed, the images behind my closed eyes faded. Carefully I opened my eyes. The light hit my retinas and made me see spots, and it felt like it was burning inside my brain.
My leg was sore. Not as sore as I expected it to be, but still pretty sore.
Brett jumped up and knelt down beside me, so our faces were level. He searched my face, like he was making sure I was the same person. Which for someone with a personality disorder is a genuine concern, so I guess it was warranted.
“I told you not to get shot.”
“And I told you getting shot was my favorite part.”
“Linds, god, if you ever scare me like that again…”
“Whatcha gonna do? Kill me?” I smiled. I felt surprisingly good for someone who had just been shot in the thigh.
Linds. That was kind of cute.
Using my arms, I hauled myself up into a sitting position. I felt it then, but not too badly: a shock of pain ran all the way down my leg and up into my hip. I winced.
“Not bad, for someone who just shattered their femur.”
Brett looked at me funny. “You didn’t shatter your femur.”
I stared at him, thinking back. Yeah, it was definitely my femur. And yeah, it was definitely shattered—
Oh god. They’d amputated. I knew it. I was feeling phantom pain. If I looked down my leg would be gone.
“Calm down,” he said, looking at me like I was crazy. “It’s just a bruise. Which is just as painful as a break, but not as bad as shattering or splintering it. You’ll be back to work in no time.”
I looked down at my leg—which, thankfully, was still there—and threw back the covers. It was wrapped tightly, but with an elastic bandage, not a plaster cast.
“No, it was shattered,” I muttered. I looked around for some sort of medical records at the foot of my bed— There was nothing.