Page 43 of Life Or Death

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

I shake my head in disbelief. The man is a master at concocting elaborate schemes. It shouldn’t surprise me, though. After all, this is the same man who forged documents and broke all kinds of laws to marry me so I’d have medical insurance.

“No.” The word comes out flat, final. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to become some charity case to you.”

His jaw tightens. “It’s not charity.”

“Lucifer, you just created a position for me on the spot.” I let out a bitter laugh. “That’s fucking charity. You heard me say I don’t have a job, and you immediately fabricated one.”

“You’re reading too much into it,” he accuses. “You need work. I have a place that needs upkeep. That’s not charity. That’s a fucking transaction.”

“A transaction?” I push myself forward in the chair, and pain lances up my left leg, but I don’t care. “You’re offering me a job that didn’t exist five minutes ago, telling me I can rest whenever I want. Assuring me I’ll be safe behind some fucking gate. That’s not a transaction, Lucifer. That’s you building me a padded room because you feel guilty.”

“I’m not doing this because I feel guilty.”

“Then why?” I challenge. “And don’t you dare play the wife card. You’re my husband on a piece of paper that means nothing to either of us. So tell me, Lucifer, what is this? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks an awful lot like a man who can’t stand the thought of someone he barely knows suffering on his watch.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides, and I watch the tendons in his forearms pop.

“You’re right,” he says, and the calm in his voice is more terrifying than any shout. “What happened to you happened because of me. Because of my club. Because some fucking piece of shit set my bar on fire with you inside it. So, yeah, maybe I do feel guilty. Maybe I lie awake at night thinking about the fact that you almost died because I’m a selfish fuck. And maybe—just maybe—that’s a good enough reason for me to want to make sure you don’t end up homeless and starving because you’re too fucking proud to accept help.”

“Leave,” I say.

Lucifer goes completely still.

“What?”

“You heard me. I want you to leave.” My voice is steady, even though my hands are shaking in my lap. “I appreciate the dinner and all the visits. But I need you to go.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

He stares at me for a long, terrible moment. Then something in his expression changes.

“Yeah, fine,” he finally says, his voice low and controlled. “I’ll go.” He turns toward the door, then pauses. “Enjoy your fucking dinner.”

The door doesn’t slam behind him, but it might as well have. I stare at the containers of food he brought—all untouched, and my eyes begin to burn.

I won’t cry.

Not until later, when the night terrors return, and Lucifer isn’t there to help me chase the demons away.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

JESS

The discharge papers feel like a verdict I’ve been waiting three weeks to hear. Tears fill my eyes before I can stop them, and I blink hard, refusing to let them fall. I worked so damn hard for this moment. I suffered through multiple surgeries and endured severe pain. Cried countless tears, and all that seems like child’s play when I think about the last three weeks.

The physical therapy was grueling, and at times I wanted to strangle Marcus. He kept ordering me to slow down while I pushed through the pain and the muscle spasms that made me see stars. Then there were days when I couldn’t feel my left foot and had to drag it behind me like dead weight. I did the exercises Marcus assigned, and then I did them again after he left my room.

Every single second of agony was worth it, because I’m walking out of here, and that’s something to be proud of. It’s a milestone I didn’t think I’d make.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling completely overwhelmed.

Dr. Patel stands at the foot of my bed with his tablet tucked under one arm. Next to him, Sandy stands, holding a thick manila folder with both hands.

Jesus, that’s a lot of fucking paper.

“Everything you need to continue your outpatient therapy is in this folder,” Sandy says.