His hand went to his lip. “Oops.”
Heat flushed her cheeks. “Rain check?”
“I bought you something.” He set a dented tin on the table in front of her. “I think most of them are broken now. Your bodyguards thought it was a weapon.”
Nimue pried open the lid. Colored pencils lay inside—or what used to be colored pencils. Now they looked like confetti. Forty pieces of broken rainbow.
“I’ll buy new ones?—”
Her hand covered his, stopping his reach. “They’re perfect.”
His smile could’ve powered the entire hospital. He leaned down, lips brushing hers with whisper softness. A promise more than a kiss.
Exhaustion tugged at her eyelids. Oh, she was sleeping way too much. “I don’t want to sleep. I want to talk to you.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He settled into the chair beside her bed, fingers never leaving hers. “I’ll be here when you wake up. And every moment after that.”
The monitors kept their steady rhythm as sleep pulled her under.
But his hand stayed warm in hers.
Solid. Real.
Here.
SEVENTEEN
Three days. Seventy-two hours of sleeping in a chair that had declared war on his spine somewhere around hour twelve.
Liam shifted positions, vertebrae popping in protest as monitors beeped their regular rhythm. Blue light washed across white walls, tracking every breath Nimue took. Half of the machines were gone now—progress.The doctor used words like “optimistic” and “discharge soon.”
Thank You, God.
Morning sunlight painted golden squares across the linoleum floor. Emberly would arrive any minute to spell him, which would mean shower time. Maybe even a real bed for a few hours. But leaving Nimue—even for twenty minutes—twisted his gut.
He stood, knees creaking, and leaned down to brush his lips across her forehead. Her skin warm, alive, perfect. He angled toward her mouth when?—
The door burst open.
Emberly strode in, boots clicking sharp staccato against the floor, her face carved from stone. “Teresa’s dead.”
The words slammed into him like a sledgehammer. Two words that changed everything.
He was still shaking off the altercation he’d walked into three days ago.
The elevator had been out of order—or someone had made sure it looked that way. Liam had taken the stairs two at a time, the pencil case clutched in his hand.
He’d pushed through the stairwell door and spotted them immediately—a woman in scrubs and two men heading down the corridor toward Nimue’s room. His gut had clenched.
Then doors had burst open behind them.
“Go, go, go!”
Bodies had erupted from patient rooms. The woman had spun, her fake surgical cap flying as she bolted for the exit.
“Colt, the runner!”
“Tate, take the left!”
