“I don’t like that look in your eyes,” Sinclair says. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. It’ll do you no good to run away. Darian will still have a target on his back, no matter what.”
“Are you sure about that?” I reply, growing larger in my seat. “It’s me he wants. No one else except my husband, you, Elijah, and a few trusted others know I’m the van der Meer’s sole heir.The Bishop is out there searching for me. He doesn’t know I’ve been hiding under their noses.”
Sinclair scoffs. “You shouldn’t underestimate him. It wouldn’t surprise me if he knew by now. The rebel group probably leaked your whereabouts.”
“Why complicate it, Sinclair? Darian is only safe if I’m not around. It’s only a matter of time before the Bishop finds out I’m here. It’s dangerous for me to stay.” I nibble on my bottom lip, my thoughts a jumble of scattered pieces trying to fall into place. “If he wants to find me, he can. So what is he waiting for?”
Sinclair stares into the darkness ahead, frowning like he wants to grab me by the hair and jostle me like a piggybank to get at my thoughts. “He probably already knows you’re here, and he’s biding his time, waiting for you to run away and leave yourself unprotected,” he answers reluctantly, almost thoughtfully. “Perhaps he’s banking on it. And you would be just stupid enough to do it to keep Darian safe.”
We lock eyes in the darkness, the lights on the dashboard the sole illumination.
“You know Darian will catch you if you run.”
“He underestimates how good I am at hiding. After all, I did it for ten years.”
“No offense, Mrs. Delacroix, but you underestimate what a good hunter your husband is.”
Time has slowedto a near crawl. Something about hospitals defies natural laws. Out there, in the real world, hours feel like minutes, sometimes seconds. But here, at my husband’s bedside, the seconds slither by painfully slowly. I’ve barely sleptsince we arrived weeks ago, refusing to leave his side. At one point, a nurse draped me in a blanket.
Except for the bruises to his face from the beatdown, Darian suffered a small brain bleed, which required emergency surgery and a stint in the ICU. His doctor remains hopeful for a full recovery, but there are no guarantees, and all we can do is wait.
Wait for my husband to heal.
Wait for him to be strong enough to be roused from his induced coma. For now, he needs to rest.
I’ve lost count of how many sunrises have woken me up from my restless slumber while I’ve been curled up awkwardly in my chair or sleeping with my head on Darian’s mattress, his hand clutched in mine. I’ve also lost count of how many times I’ve witnessed the sun dip behind the trees outside the building to mark the end of another day.
Sinclair arrives daily to check on Darian, looking tired and paler than usual, his concerned eyes raking over my withering form. “Have you eaten something?” he always asks, and I respond with a faint shake of my head as I continue staring out the window. Nothing else is said, but I feel his disapproval.
Before he leaves, he likes to bark orders at the overworked, underpaid nurses to bring me a hot meal. Other times, he’ll appear at my side with a wrapped sandwich.
“You should go home and get some sleep, Cecilia,” he says tonight as he eyes my husband’s breathing tube and the beeping monitors.
When I don’t respond, his eyes land on me. “You need more than an hour’s sleep here and there. I’ll stay.”
“I’m not leaving him like this,” I respond, sounding dead even to my own ears.
Sinclair frowns, and I worry for a second that he’ll haul me over his shoulder and carry me home. It seems like his M.O to boss women around, but if he so much as tries to move mefrom this chair, I’ll fight him tooth and nail. I’ll scream the place down.
“I’m not leaving,” I repeat in a firm tone. “Don’t make me.”
Sinclair studies me in the muted light from the bedside lamp, which offers the sole illumination. “You know Darian will have my head if I don’t look after you while he’s gone, right?”
“No offense, Sinclair, but I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
“When was the last time you showered? Slept? Ate a proper meal?”
“I could use a fly swatter right about now,” I grumble, rubbing my eyes. “Your concern is heartwarming. It is. But don’t you have like a hundred bat plants to look after? I heard they flourish if you talk to them.”
Much to my surprise, Sinclair laughs, and if I didn’t feel like death warmed up, I could appreciate the sweet sound. When was the last time something made me laugh?
Leaning forward in my seat, I reach for Darian’s hand, careful not to disturb the cannula, and kiss his knuckles.
Tears moisten my lashes as I linger with my lips on his warm skin, which smells of faint antiseptic like everything in this room.
“Does the Bishop know?” I ask, lowering his hand to the mattress.
“No. No one knows you’re here. Dr. Grant can be trusted.”
