The steady beeping of a heart monitor pulled Elena from unconsciousness.

White ceiling.

Sterile scent.

Pain blooming through her shoulder like fire.

She was alive.

Barely.

Her fingers curled around the edges of the blanket, instinctively reaching for the scroll beneath her pillow.

Still there.

She exhaled in relief—but the second breath hitched.

Xavier.

Where was he?

She tried to sit up and groaned as fire lanced down her arm. The door opened immediately, and a dark-skinned woman in her fifties stepped in, wearing all black and holding a tray of herbs.

“You should be resting, ragazza,” she said with a clipped Italian accent.

Elena blinked. “Where am I?”

“The...