Damaged: The Dillon Sisters Layla Frost (ebook reader with highlighter .txt) 📖

if I was still dreaming. Or maybe it was a fever hallucination. Either of those made more sense than her actually being there.

Thanks to our eight-year age difference—not to mention our everything else difference—my sister and I weren’t exactly close. I meant that literally, too. She’d long ago fled to attend school across the country, which was just another thing I was jealous of.

Rubbing the sleep and bleariness from my eyes, I dropped my hands to see she was actually there. Happiness surged through me.

My big sister obviously didn’t feel the same. Tears filled her eyes before sliding freely down her cheeks.

“I look that good, huh?” I deadpanned. “You don’t have to cry about my beauty. You’ll outgrow your ugly duckling stage eventually, too.”

It was a bad joke for a lot of reasons. The Dillon sisters were blessed with good looks. Mine were stolen like everything else, but Aria was just as gorgeous as I remembered.

More so, actually.

If I’d felt inferior and riddled with sibling rivalry over my beautiful, smart, lithe older sister before, it was times a million now that I was gaunt and pale and sickly.

“You look beautiful,” she said. Funny enough, she likely believed that. She was wrong, but in her mind, it wasn’t a lie. She could find the good in the wickedest of witches.

“It’s my hot new diet.” Feeling much, much older than sixteen, my bones and joints creaked and popped as I struggled to sit up.

“Use the button,” Aria chided, already in doctor mode even though she was still in her doctorate program to become a psychologist. She pressed the button to raise the head of the mattress.

The elevation made my brain feel like a balloon inflating in a too tight space. My head swam and nausea hit. I barely had enough time to turn my face away before I threw up all over myself, the bed, and the floor.

Finally get a visitor, and I almost barf on her.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, choking down more stomach acid at the rancid taste that coated my tongue.

Aria’s voice was surprisingly vehement as she bit out, “Do not apologize.”

I could hear her moving across the room before the sink turned on, but I couldn’t bring myself to move or call out to stop her. Blindly, I reached out and hit the button for the nurse. At least I was hoping I hit the right one.

Aria returned with a damp cloth, wiping it across my face.

I jerked away quickly and, thanks to the sudden movement, I was dangerously close to barfing again or passing out. Either would be better than my sister having to wipe my face like I was a baby. “Fine.” I inhaled slowly. “Paged the nurse.”

“Just let me—”

Gathering all my strength, I grabbed the cloth. “I’m fine.”

Luckily, Dana—one of the nurses I liked—came in as my garnered strength deflated. “Got sick again?”

“Again?” Aria whispered.

Dana didn’t share that it wasn’t the first, second, or even third time I’d thrown up so far that day. “I’ll get you cleaned up and then go get your next dose of Zofran.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, even though I didn’t feel thankful. But none of it was her fault, and I was always polite to a beauty-pageant-contestant T.

After paging people to mop, yet again, Dana gathered her supplies. She carefully transferred me into a chair on the opposite side of the bed from Aria before reaching for my headwrap.

My hand darted up to hold it in place.

Sympathy softened her gaze. “You’ve got a little vomit on here.”

It was stupid and vain to be concerned with something so superficial, but I was mortified at Aria seeing how all my blond hair had fallen out, leaving me looking like the love child of Skeletor and Mr. Clean.

Since I couldn’t sit around in my own sick, I had no choice but to let Dana remove the pretty floral wrap one of the volunteers had made for me.

“So,” I drawled to Aria, already knowing the only color in my complexion was my burning cheeks, “how’s school? I’m sure it’s not as glamorous as all this, but tell me everything.”

The worry never left her expression as Aria gave me the distraction I needed by telling me about her psychology program while people fussed around us to clean up my mess.

“Time to get you changed,” Dana said, helping me sit on the edge of the remade bed before looking at Aria. “Please wait by the door and close the curtain.”

But it was too late.

Aria’s gaze was narrowed, focused like laser beams on where my thin, scratchy gown had rode up to expose my thigh.

Even when Dad was being an overbearing ass or Mom was being… Mom, I’d never seen Aria anything other than pleasant, sweet, and irritatingly calm. But as she stared at my leg, rage and something else burned in her blue eyes.

“Aria, go,” I ordered, harsher than I meant as I quickly yanked the fabric back into place.

Her gaze snapped up to meet mine and whatever the other thing was in her expression, it overtook the rage. I didn’t know what it was, but I still hated it. She stepped back and closed the curtain, her own movements harsh.

Once I was cleaned, changed, and back in bed, Dana opened the curtain and gestured Aria in. “I’ll be back with your meds.”

I barely had the energy to nod.

Getting up and moving to a chair two steps away shouldn’t be so strenuous, but my body ached as though I’d done a triathlon followed by a light 5K. I was exhausted. Nauseous. Embarrassed.

And so damn sick of it all.

I must’ve dozed off because the next time I opened my eyes, Dana was there with my meds and my favorite herbal tea.

Great. I finally get a visitor, and I barf and fall asleep.

I’m an awesome host.

“Sorry,” I muttered to Aria.

She just smiled and waved away my apology. I wondered if she’d follow the Dillon method of ignoring unpleasantness, but as soon as we were alone, she asked, “How long?”

I played dumb.