Dr. Bentley bristled. “I am the head of this ER. I don’t have my thumb stuck anywhere. Patients beg for me to treat them. I am known far beyond this county?—”
“Doc,” Cope snarled. “Give her the meds.”
“He meant to addpleaseonto that,” I cut in.
The doctor turned to me and let out a huff. “I know professional athletes have tempers, but this is ridiculous.”
I sent Cope a look to keep him in check. Whatever I’d managed despite the throbbing in my head seemed to work.
Dr. Bentley donned gloves and then removed a syringe from his pocket. He uncapped it and slid the needle into the IV tubing. “This will start you out with a stronger dose of pain medication. Are you nauseous at all?”
“A little,” I admitted.
He pulled out another syringe. “I’m going to give you some Zofran for that. I’ll write you a prescription for that and oxycodone that you can take home with you.”
A wave of something that felt a lot like fear swept through me. “I don’t need the oxy.”
Dr. Bentley’s brows rose. “Are there addiction issues I need to be aware of?”
“No. But I don’t like taking that stuff.” I wasn’t about to let that poison get a foothold.
“Sutton,” Cope said softly, crossing to the bed and taking my hand. “You need pain meds while you recover. You have a concussion and stitches. Both will take time to heal.”
“I can take Tylenol.” Whatever the doctor had put in my IV was already easing my pain and making me feel a bit floaty. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the feeling Roman was always chasing.
Dr. Bentley cleared his throat. “I’ll have the prescription filled. If you don’t need it, that’s great. But if you do, it’ll be there.”
“I don’t?—”
“Warrior,” Cope said, cutting me off. “We’re taking the prescription home.”
I snapped my mouth closed, the action making pain flicker in my head.
Cope turned to the doctor. “Can she go home tonight, or does she need to stay in the hospital?”
Dr. Bentley’s gaze swept over me, assessing. “I want to keep her for another hour to make sure there’s no vomiting after the meds. If not, she can go home. But someone needs to be with her.”
“I will be,” Cope ground out.
“All right. You have to wake her every three hours. Ask simple questions like her name or what year it is.”
“That’s no problem,” Cope assured him.
“Good,” the doctor clipped. “I’ll ready the discharge paperwork.”
As Dr. Bentley slipped out of the room, Cope lowered himself to a chair next to my bed. I sent him a pointed look. “You weren’t very nice to him.”
“Guy’s a pompous prick.”
I shrugged. “Maybe you need a little of that to deal with holding people’s lives in your hands on a regular basis.”
Cope sighed and scrubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I’m sorry. I just hate seeing you in pain.”
“The medicine’s helping already.” I wanted to reassure him, but I couldn’t help feeling on edge about having an intense painkiller coursing through my system.
“Sutton—”
Cope’s words were cut off by the room’s door opening again. But it wasn’t a doctor or nurse this time; it was a familiar face. Trace’s gaze swept over me, assessing every mark and injury. His expression remained carefully neutral, but I didn’t miss the flicker of anger in his green eyes.
