I gird my loins. In spite of my mother’s chosen profession, I loathe hospitals.

In the elevator, on my way to the OR floor, my phone buzzes with a text from Andrea. She’s reserved my usual suite at The Heathman. A nurse at the reception desk on the third floor directs me to the waiting room. Taking a deep breath, I open the door. Inside the stark, utilitarian room I find Ana seated on a plastic chair. Pale, scared, and swamped in a man’s leather jacket, she’s clutching José Rodriguez’s hand. His father sits in a wheelchair beside him.

“Christian,” she cries. The relief and hope on her face as she leaps up to greet me extinguish the brief flash of jealousy that flared in my gut. When she’s in my arms, I close my eyes and hold her close. She smells of apples and orchards and Ana, and the unmistakable aroma of cheap cologne and sweaty nights out.

José’s jacket?

I wrinkle my nose and hope no one notices. José stands, but José Rodriguez senior remains in the wheelchair, looking pretty banged up.

Shit. He must have been in the accident, too.

“Any news?” I direct my question at Ana.

She shakes her head.

“José.” I nod a greeting while keeping hold of my wife. Sawyer is seated in the corner. He acknowledges me with a quick nod; I’m grateful that he’s been here with Ana.

“Christian, this is my father, José Senior,” José says.

“Mr. Rodriguez—we met at the wedding. You were in the accident, too?” Gently, I shake his free hand.

“We all were,” José replies. “We were driving to Astoria for a day’s fishing.” His face hardens, and his fresh-faced boyishness disappears, revealing the menacing man beneath. “But we were hit by a drunk driver on the way. He totaled my dad’s car. Miraculously, I was unharmed. My dad got beat up, but Ray—” He stops and swallows to collect himself, then, with a swift, anxious glance at Ana, continues, “He was bad. He was airlifted from Astoria community hospital to here.”

I tighten my arm around Ana.

“After they patched my father up, we followed,” he finishes, and I raise my brows in surprise. Mr. Rodriguez Senior has a leg and an arm in casts, and one side of his face is bruised. He doesn’t look fit to travel.

“Yeah.” José shakes his head in exasperation, as if he can read my mind. “My dad insisted.”

“Are you both well enough to be here?” I ask.

“We don’t want to be anywhere else.” Mr. Rodriguez’s face contorts; he looks and sounds like he’s in pain.

Maybe they should go home.

But I don’t press them; they’re here for Ray. Taking Ana’s hand, I guide her back to one of the seats and sit down beside her. “Have you eaten?”

She shakes her head.

“Are you hungry?”

She shakes her head.

“But you’re cold?” I ask, catching another whiff of José’s jacket. She nods and wraps the offending garment more snugly around her. The door opens and a man in scrubs enters—dark-haired, tall, and with a weary air of battle fatigue; his expression is grave.

Shit.

Ana stumbles to her feet, and I stand quickly to steady her. All eyes in the room are on the young doctor.

“Ray Steele,” Ana says with quiet trepidation.

“You’re his next of kin?” the doctor asks.

“I’m his daughter, Ana.”

“Miss Steele—”

“Mrs. Grey,” I mutter, correcting him.

“My apologies,” the doctor stammers. “I’m Dr. Crowe. Your father is stable, but in critical condition.”

Ana crumples in my arms as the doctor delivers each blow about Ray’s condition. “He suffered severe internal injuries, principally to his diaphragm, but we’ve managed to repair them, and we were able to save his spleen. Unfortunately, he suffered a cardiac arrest during the operation because of blood loss. We managed to get his heart going again, but this remains a concern.”

Jesus!

“However,” Dr. Crowe continues, “our gravest concern is that he suffered severe contusions to the head, and the MRI shows that he has swelling in his brain. We’ve induced a coma to keep him quiet and still while we monitor the brain swelling.”

Ana gasps, sagging against me some more.

“It’s standard procedure in these cases. For now, we just have to wait and see.”

“And what’s the prognosis?” I ask, trying to mask the distress in my voice.

“Mr. Grey, it’s difficult to say at the moment. It’s possible he could make a complete recovery, but that’s in God’s hands now.”

“How long will you keep him in a coma?”

“That depends on how his brain responds. Usually seventy-two to ninety-six hours.”

“Can I see him?” Ana’s breathless with anxiety.

“Yes, you should be able to see him in about half an hour. He’s been taken to the ICU on the sixth floor.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

Dr. Crowe nods a good-bye and leaves us.

“Well, he’s alive,” Ana whispers, trying to sound hopeful, but tears pool in her eyes and spill down her ashen face.

No. Ana, baby. “Sit down,” I tell her, easing her back to the seat.

“Papa,” José says to his father, “I think we should go. You need to rest. We won’t know anything for a while. We can come back this evening, after you’ve rested. That’s okay, isn’t it, Ana?” José turns to Ana.

“Of course,” she responds.