Pain of the past

"Christ," I muttered as consciousness returned.

My eyelids felt like they weighed about fifty pounds each, but I managed to crack them open. The first thing I saw made me question whether I'd hit my head harder than I thought.

Elena was staring down at me, and for just a moment—maybe it was the concussion talking—I could have sworn she looked... concerned? Almost gentle?

I blinked. Hard.

Nope. There was that familiar scowl, sharp enough to cut glass and twice as welcoming.

'Must've been the head trauma,' I thought, watching her expression settle back into its default setting of barely contained homicidal rage.

"Finally awake, sleeping beauty?" she said, though her version of gentle concern involved driving her fist into my solar plexus hard enough to make me see stars again.

"Jesus—get off me!" I wheezed, only then realizing she'd been using my torso as a chair this entire time.