EMBER’S POV
“Absolutely not.”
Rayana’s voice carries through the penthouse like a wounded opera singer hitting her death note.
She’s propped up in bed, surrounded by her army of pillows, looking considerably healthier than she did this morning but apparently not healthy enough to let us leave in peace.
“You cannot both abandon me,” she continues, pressing a hand to her chest like she’s auditioning for a Victorian melodrama. “I am injured. I am vulnerable. I am a dying woman left alone in a strange place with strangers who don’t understand my needs.”
“The nurse understands your needs,” Knox says flatly. “She’s a medical professional.”
“She doesn’t know my history. My complications. My very specific medication schedule.”
“Your medication schedule is written on a chart. On the wall. In
