Morgan came to with his vision blurred and a foul taste in his mouth. It was the acrid taste of vomit, which littered the floor in front of him. His hands shook like leaves in a strong wind, and there was no energy left in his body. All he could think, as he lay there in a puddle with glass shards piercing his cheek, was that he was going to die.
And how he’d messed up.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, poisoned on the floor of somebody you were trying to protect.
Cooper.
Morgan found just enough strength to turn his head, trying to look at where Cooper had fallen. When he finally made it, that area of the floor coming into view, all he saw was a vacant space. It occurred to him that there were two possibilities: Cooper could have regained consciousness, then made it out of the room to go find help. Then there was the chance that Arthur St. John had spiked the wine, knocking them both out and taking Cooper away. Morgan knew this was the most likely, and if true, they were all in for a world of shit.
It caused a great pain in his stomach to do so, but Morgan reached for his phone. His insides hurt with every twitch, every movement he made. He had no choice, however. Reaching his thumb to the recently called contacts, he touched Rachel’s name like she was right there—like he was wiping a teardrop from her eye. The phone rang, and she answered on the second ring, calling louder and louder for a response.
But Morgan couldn’t speak.
Before he knew it, his eyes were closing again. His body cramped and jolted, shooting hard spasms at the base of his spine. The taste of vomit returned to him, blindness making its way back around. If he could separate the awful, panic-inducing feelings from each other, there would be room for fear: fear for Rachel. Fear for Cooper.
“Rachel…” he wheezed, his voice a mere croak between lips that were turning ice-cold. He tried to raise his head, but trying only brought on more dizziness, shocking him into a swirling world that chucked the bile up his throat.
“Morgan, are you there? Morgan. Morgan!”
That angelic voice—no matter how urgent and afraid—was the best thing he could’ve heard as he closed his eyes. As tiredness took him and the soothing sound of the woman he loved bled through the phone, Morgan gave in to his deepest fears and accepted the hard truth: there were worse ways to die, and at least he wasn’t alone.