Sweetest Sorrow (Forbidden Book 2) by J.M. Darhower Read Free Book Online

doctor waited, eyebrows raised, like he expected some acknowledgement.
    Dante nodded once.
    Whatever it takes to get the hell out of this bed.
    “Good, good…” Dr. Crabtree looked quite pleased with himself. “I'm glad you’re choosing to cooperate."
    The doctor nodded toward the nurse, giving her permission to free him. She untied the restraints, getting rid of them. As soon as Dante was free, he reached up, feeling around on his face, fingertips grazing along the ventilator.
    He almost did it.
    He almost pulled the son of a bitch out just to spite the man.
    The nurse shot him a look, though, that stopped him right away. It was a warning, daring him that he wouldn’t like what happened if he went through with it. Dante wasn’t one to take orders from just anybody, but he didn’t push it, not this time. Instead, he held his hand up, pressing his thumb and pointer finger together and wiggling them, making the motion like he was holding a pen. The doctor’s brow furrowed, terrible at Charades , but the nurse smiled.
    “He wants something to write with,” she said. “I guess he has something to say."
    Dr. Crabtree hesitated, like he was debating whether or not to allow that, but obliged. “Go ahead and get him something… something that isn’t sharp, you know, that he can’t hurt anyone with."
    The nurse seemed a little put off by the request, her face twisting as if the insinuation was absurd. Dante would’ve laughed, well… if he could’ve . It was obvious the doctor knew who he was. She, on the other hand, probably had no idea what kind of man she was dealing with.
    She returned with a yellow legal pad and a bright red crayon, looking like she’d taken it straight from a fresh pack. She held it up as she walked past the doctor. “This too pointy for you?"
    The doctor glanced at it and seemed to consider it for a second. “That’ll be fine."
    The moment the nurse turned, out of the doctor's line of sight, she rolled her eyes. Approaching the bed, she slipped the crayon into Dante’s hand, her fingertips brushing across his skin as she let go. She adjusted the bed, sitting him up a bit further, before holding the pad up to him so he could scribble on it. It took a hell of a lot more effort than he thought it would, the crayon slipping out of his hand, his grip weak, his fingers trembling, but he managed to spell out a single sloppy word. When .
    “When?” the nurse read aloud.
    “When, what?” the doctor asked, his face buried in a chart.
    Reaching up, Dante again grasped the ventilator. Before he could do anything more, the nurse yanked his hand away.
    “He wants to know when you’re going to wean him off the ventilator,” she said.
    Dante cut his eyes at her. Huh . Intuitive.
    “Soon,” the doctor said again.
    Dante took the crayon and beat the tip of it against the paper, leaving sharp red marks all over the word ‘ when’ .
    “He wants to know how soon,” the nurse said. “He wants a time-frame."
    The doctor sighed dramatically. “Within the next twenty-four hours."
    Dante glared at him. Not good enough.
    He used the crayon and tried to write again, blindly scribbling on the pad, right over the first word he wrote. The nurse watched him, her eyes narrowed as she riddled it out. “No— concert? Constant? Concept? Consent?” Her eyes widened as she looked at him. "Oh, consent!"
    Dante nodded.
    “He says you have no consent,” she said, turning to the doctor.
    “No consent for what?"
    “To keep him intubated. He's saying you don’t have his permission, therefore you have to remove it right away."
    “Yeah, well, nowhere in Mr. Galante’s extensive dossier did I read that he had a degree in medicine, so I hardly see how he knows the best course of treatment. Besides, he's in no condition to be making medical decisions. He’s barely lucid."
    Dante reached toward the pad with the crayon, having a hell of a lot to say to that, and scribbled jumbled words that barely resembled