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“If that’s the case, then I’d appreciate a ride over. Zoey is there right now, and I’d really like to be at her bedside when she wakes up.”
Alaric doesn’t even flinch at my request for a ride, and he steps out of the way so I can pass him. I hurriedly put on my coat and grab my bag, locking my apartment door behind me once I have everything.
Alaric walks silently beside me as we head down the hall. His breathing alone causes the hair on my skin to stand on end, making my heart skip a silent beat.
I don’t know this man.
I don’t know a thing about him.
But one thing is clear.
My body responds to his like a moth to a flame.
I just hope that the path I’m on now won’t burn me alive.
CHAPTER13
Alaric
Ten days.
That’s how long it took for Zoey’s doctor to pencil her in for an emergency operation to remove her blood clot. To say I was pissed that it took that long to set up is an understatement.
The day Layla told me she would be mine, I couldn’t drive to the hospital quickly enough to pay the hospital bill and dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s so Zoey could finally get the surgery she needed.
A part of me should have felt guilty that I manipulated Layla into agreeing to marry me before I wrote her a check. I mean, there was no way in hell I would have let little Zoey suffer another day after I learned that this surgery was the life and death kind. I would have paid whatever was necessary for her to get better, no question about it.
However . . .
Keeping that information away from Layla, although underhanded, was the choice I opted for to get what I’ve been craving for the past five years now.
Her.
I never said I was a nice man, and soon, Layla will know how true those words are.
As if she can read my thoughts across the room, her gaze bores into me, making me raise my eyes to meet hers. Like always, though, Layla breaks the connection, preferring to pace back and forth inside this hospital waiting room as she worries her lower lip. She doesn’t look at me once after that, only lifts her head every so often to glance at the clock on the wall before flinching in despair at how long it’s taking to get news about her sister.
I keep silent, knowing full well nothing I say will ease her concern. It’s been four hours since Zoey was taken into surgery, and so far, no one has come out to give us any updates on how it’s going.
“Something’s wrong,” she mumbles more to herself than to me. “It’s taking too long. The doctor should have been back already.”
I wish I could alleviate her apprehension, so I try even though I know it’s futile. “I’m sure everything is fine. No news is good news.”
She snaps her head in my direction, visibly upset at my response.
Fuck.
I should have kept my mouth shut.
“What I meant to say is that if anything went wrong, we would be the first to know. The doctor said the surgery would take four to five hours. We’re right on time, Layla. Zoey will be fine,” I promise, trying to reach for her, but she sidesteps my hand, glaring at me. If we weren’t in such a serious situation, it might even be cute.
“You don’t know that,” she rebukes bitterly, unappeased by my poor attempt at optimism.
“You’re right. I don’t. But neither do you,” I retort calmly, getting up from my seat.
I bridge the gap between us, but when I get closer, her body stiffens, and she hurriedly takes a step away from me. Rubbing the back of my head, I let out a frustrated exhale, but I don’t try to cover that distance again or push her. This situation is tense as it is, and I know my presence only heightens her anxious state.
It’s been close to two weeks since I came to her door, eager for her answer to my proposal, but when she accepted, there was no kiss to seal the deal or even excitement in her tone. In fact, Layla made sure that her tone was very businesslike throughout the whole exchange. To say I was disappointed, even when she said yes, would be an understatement. Layla made it very clear that her main concern was getting Zoey the operation as fast as possible and that our wedding would have to take a back seat until her sister was in the clear.
