“All of thedamage in the living room has been repaired,” Nero says as he unlocks the front door of the penthouse when we finally leave the hospital a few days later.
I sigh from where I’m sitting in a wheelchair. Despite telling Nero it is completely unnecessary, he insisted on wheeling me in from the car to the elevator.
He’s treating me like I’m still fragile, but I’ve been doing a lot better in the last two days. I’m down to taking only a few Tylenol to manage the pain.
My body is healing, but my soul feels like it’s adrift.
He wheels me in, guiding me all the way through the penthouse, and stops in front of my bedroom door. “I got the bathroomcompletely redone. I don’t want anything in there to trigger bad memories of that night, but if it’s still too much, let me know.”
I blink in surprise. I thought he’d take me to his room. Before this, I was planning to move in there with him, but I just hadn’t gotten around to it. “Why don’t we go to your room?”
A flicker of emotion crosses his face—something I can’t quite read. “We can if you want.”
I frown. That’s not the enthusiastic response I’d anticipated. He hasn’t tried to kiss me since I woke up after the surgery. On the forehead and cheeks, yes, but never on the lips. There've been times I've caught him looking at my mouth, but he’s held back.
Why?
Our eyes connect. His are filled with unease, as if he’s wrestling with something deep inside.
“No, this is fine,” I say, trying to mask the disappointment creeping in.
He nods and leads me into the room, helping me climb up on the bed and then pulling the blanket over me. His movements are gentle, but there’s something distant in them, a hesitance that wasn’t there before.
I want to ask him what’s going on. I want to hear what he thinks about everything that happened. But I’m too afraid to hear his answer, so I keep my questions to myself.
My sleep that night is restless. Whenever I wake up, I find Nero on the other side of the bed, lying on his side. Sometimes his eyes are open, watching me. Other times, they’re closed, and his brow is furrowed in his sleep.
I dream of gunshots, men shouting, and cold metal beneath my hands.
When I wake up, the sun’s risen, and Nero’s gone.
The doctor arrives sometime later, checking on me under Nero’s supervision, and he tells me the wound’s healing exceptionally well. An older woman brings me my meals. Nero’s hired her to be our chef.
By midday, I’m tired of marinating inside my sheets. I throw the covers off, get to my feet, and walk out of the room.
Nero comes around the corner, his eyes widening when he realizes I’m on my feet.
“Blake, slow down.”
“You heard the doctor. I’m fine. It barely even hurts anymore.” I hike the edge of my pajama top up to show him the wound. It doesn’t look pretty, but the skin has begun to heal. “I can’t keep lying here all day anymore.”
I walk past him into the living room. It looks completely different with the new furniture—two new leather couches, a darker rug, and a glass coffee table. Everything is neat and pristine, as if trying to erase any trace of what happened here.
I pour myself a glass of water in the kitchen, where the countertop and cabinetry have all been replaced. Nero follows me, his gaze flickering with unease. There’s obviously something weighing on him.
How much longer am I going to skirt the topic? I blow out a breath. “Nero, what’s going on? I can tell something’s bothering you.”
He presses his palms against the counter, his gaze locked on mine from across the island. The tension in his shoulders tightens, like he’s bracing himself for something. “I wanted to wait until you’re better.”
“Wait for what? I’m better. Just tell me.”
He hesitates, his jaw working for a moment. Finally, he exhales. “All right. I’ll be right back.” He leaves the room and comes back a minute later with a brown envelope in his hand.
He hands it to me. “This is for you.”
I open it and dump the contents onto the island.
A passport clatters out from among the documents.
