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I saw his face in the window only a second before the door was wrenched open, and Mr. Hart entered the room with a nurse close on his heels.
“What is this?” he roared at the nurse, not even noticing me sitting silently in the darkened corner beside Becca’s bed.
“You call this a private room?” he spat. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Yes, sir, of course. I’m going to put her on the waitlist for one of the larger rooms right now.”
“And get the goddamn doctor in here right now, I want to know exactly what happened to my daughter.”
The nurse raced back down the hall, and Mr. Hart inhaled shakily, putting his hand to his mouth as he took in Rebecca lying prone on the hospital bed. He noticed me a moment later and removed the hand that was covering his mouth, his big money mask back in place.
“Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my daughter’s room?”
I met his hard stare with an even harder one of my own, remembering what Becca told me about her father forcing her to go to MIT instead of the school she really wanted to go to. I didn’t think that was the only thing he’d ever forced her into.
“A friend.”
Mr. Hart’s cold brown eyes tracked from my head down to my feet and back up again, clearly deciding I was not friend material for his precious daughter only a second before recognition sparked.
“I know you. You’re one of Diesel St. Crow’s sons, aren’t you?”
“Grey,” I supplied.
His eyes widened.
“You,” he sneered. “This is all your fault, isn’t it?”
He cleared the space between us, his chest puffing up beneath his tailored suit. I stood, but made no move to attack or defend. This dog was all bark and no bite.
I wouldn’t lie to him, but I also wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of a reply.
“What?” he hissed. “It wasn’t enough to take my wife from me?Hmm?You had to take my…my daughtertoo.” his voice cracked.
“I’m sorry for the loss of your wife, sir,” I said, monotone. “But it wasn’t the Saints who took her life, and I think you know that.”
“No?” he pressed, the cracks in his voice filled with acid now. “I’m not talking about her death, boy. Your kind took her from melongbefore she died, and I’ll be damned if I allow you to drag my daughter down with her.”
It was time for me to leave. I turned to Becca and bent, taking her delicate hand in mine despite her father’s protests behind me. I gave it a small squeeze. “You can do this,” I whispered. “We need you.”
“Get away from my daughter this instant.”
I felt something on her palm and pulled back, flipping it carefully to see the smears of dirtied paint drying in the cracks there. I peeled her fingers back and found paint under her nails, too.
Smiling, I brought her hand to my lips before laying it back down on the bed.
I shouldered past her father and out into the hall, already typing out a message to the group chat, ignoring her father’s shouts to not bother coming back.
I jabbed the elevator button.
Grey: Meet me at Briar Hall. Becca might’ve left us a gift.
The doors dinged open.
“Greyson?”
“Uncle Damien?”
I stared at the man who was unmistakably Damien St. Vincent standing alone in the elevator with a knot in his brows. I hadn’t seen him in a few years but he looked the exact same. With a salt and pepper shadow of scruff along his jaw and jet black hair that only deepened the contrast of his slate gray eyes.
