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Theresa
"Who are you?" His blue-almost-indigo-colored eyes bore into me. Considering he’s been unconscious for two weeks, he shouldn’t seem this alert. But nothing about this man has been predictable from the moment I laid eyes on him.
"Don’t you remember? You stepped in front of me; you took a bullet for me." Shit, hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that, honestly, but it’s the only thing I have been able to think of in the time I have sat here staring at him.
"Bullet?" He tilts his head, then winces.
"Your temple," I gesture to the bandage around his head, "the bullet hit your temple. You lost a lot of blood and they had to put you in an induced coma so that you could heal faster."
The expression on his face doesn’t change. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. He raises his gaze back to mine, then glances around the room, before staring at the glass of water on the side table.
"Oh, are you thirsty?"
He doesn’t reply. Simply looks at me again.
Of course, he’s thirsty. What an insane thing to ask. His gaze tracks me as I reach his bedside. I raise the glass of water and hold it out. He stares from my face, to the glass of water, then back at me.
"Oh, right." I lower the glass until the edge of the straw stuck inside it brushes his mouth. He parts his lips and sips from the straw. The tendons of his throat move as he swallows.
Awareness prickles up my spine. I’ve stared at him so closely over the past couple of weeks that I know every ridge of his face, every crease at the edges of his eyes, the jut of his nose, the strong squareness of his jaw, the way his lower lip is pouty and fat and almost too feminine for the rest of his face; the way his dark hair curls over his forehead, how his long lashes brush across his cheekbones, the width of his shoulders which strain against the hospital gown they’d draped on him, the tan of his skin, still dark, even after all this time in the hospital, hinting at his bloodline. A bloodline that I know well, considering I had been in love with his triplet before he’d died. A man I’d crushed on since I had been a child. A man who is now gone, never to return, and instead… This man, with the face of my past love, had appeared out of the blue to take his place. It has to be a sign, surely, that his path and mine have crossed. Xander is dead but this guy is alive. And he saved me from the bullet. Surely, there is no logical reason he’d do that… Not unless he felt pulled toward me, even though neither of us knew each other. Of course, I know who he is now, but the intensity with which he’s watching me indicates he has no clue about how we are connected.
When he slumps against the pillow, I place the glass back on the bedside.
"Uh, I think I need to call the doctor." I shift forward in my chair before rising.
"The doctor?"
I nod, "You’ve been in a coma for two weeks."
He frowns.
"Basically, since you got shot, you’ve been out. We, uh, had to rush you to the hospital—"
"We?" His scowl deepens.
"We, as in me—even though I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, seeing as I was covered in your blood—and your brothers were—"
"Brothers?" His gaze intensifies. "Did you say my brothers?" he asks with slow deliberation.
"Yes," I nod. Surely, it’s okay to tell him about his brothers, right? I mean, he does know about them, doesn’t he? Why else would he have sought them out and intruded on the gathering at Christian and Aurora’s place?
Unless he doesn’t really know about their existence, or that of his triplets, or the fact that one of them is dead. Oh, crap. I swallow. Maybe I shouldn’t have spoken to him, and called the doctor instead. Surely, it isn’t good for him to get all worked up, and that’s exactly what I’m causing right now.
His eyebrows knit, a wary gaze in his eyes. He clenches and unclenches his fingers and my gaze is drawn to his arm. Scars run up the length of his forearm. They should be ugly, except there are tattoos inked into either side of the blemishes. I have had two weeks to study them while he was unconscious, and I still find them fascinating. The designs are flames that have been drawn into his skin. The patterns enhance the scars, showcase them, and turn them into a work of art. It must have been painful though. It looks like he had been badly burned, and a while ago, by the state of the blemishes.
"What happened?" I burst out.
His features tighten. "None of your business," he snaps.
I firm my lips. "Jeez keep your shirt on, I was only trying to be sociable."
"Well, don’t be," he rasps. His voice is rough, probably because he hasn’t used it over the last two weeks, but hell if it doesn’t sound sexy. Damn it, the man is recovering from a coma. He has no business being this attractive.And you have no business wanting to jump into bed with him when he’s this weak.
"Okay then." I pull out my hair tie, and my hair flows around my shoulders. "I think it’s best I get the doctor."
I turn to leave, then gasp when he grabs my wrist. Electricity travels out from the point of contact. I glance down at where the darkness of his fingers contrasts with the paleness of my skin. It’s as if I am the one who’s been unwell, considering my pallor.
