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I want to know why he wasn’t here when I woke up.
This is dangerous, but I can’t help it. I need to find him, or all I’ll do is lie here thinking about him and driving myself bonkers.
The first task: removing the line from my arm. That’s actually very easy since the bag hanging from the hook is pretty much empty. It takes a moment for me to figure things out, but I clamp off the end before removing the tube. There’s a tiny bit of blood that spurts out across my skin, but otherwise, all that’s left behind is a very tiny hole that I know will soon close over. In a few minutes, it won’t even be there.
Next comes sitting up, which I manage to do with a soft groan as muscles that have been still and unused for days are forced into action. I stretch, bending this way and that, before swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and placing a tentative foot on the floor. I’m weak, yes, but it’s not terrible. It’s not like I can’t walk.
After a few slow, shaky steps, I make my way out of the infirmary, pushing through a swinging door. Beyond that is a hallway like the one I walked down when I first left the dungeon. This part of the house feels older, somehow, like the entire structure wasn’t built all at once. Instead of brick, the walls are stone, and I don’t know if it’s cold in here or what, but I shiver a little as I walk across the stone floor. Now, this is the sort of place where I can imagine there being a dungeon downstairs. Maybe this is part of the original structure.
All of this is background information fed to me by my subconscious while I walk through the hall. What am I looking for, exactly? Wilde, for sure, though I have no idea where to find him. Where would I find the highest-ranking members of a family like his? Especially at a time like this? The war room—I’m sure that’s where my father would be back home. I can’t believe it’s been so long since I’ve seen him. I hope he isn’t worried about me.
Once I stop thinking so hard about what I’m doing and trust my gut, I eventually hear voices. Male voices, in particular, a few of them. I follow the sound, keenly aware of the fact that I’m wearing nothing but a nightgown but not caring very much, either. I have too many questions—and I really do want to see Wilde. I don’t think I can rest until I do.
The voices are coming through an open door up ahead. Only when I’m a few steps from the doorway, do I realize that what I’m hearing isn’t a friendly argument or even a civil disagreement. There’s a full-on fight brewing.
It’s enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and my wolf stir in my chest.
“Dad?” I gasp in disbelief when my brain finally catches up to what my eyes are showing it. He’s standing in the center of the room, Wilde in front of him.
And he’s holding a knife to his throat.
Whatever I interrupted, it’s about me, I realize.
All eyes turn to me at the sound of my voice, and Dad drops the knife before rushing my way. “Lili,” he breathes, gathering me up in a hug.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, but it’s Wilde my eyes seek out over his shoulder. Wilde, who seems to slump a little in relief. I can imagine why since I’ve never seen Dad look so much like he was ready to commit murder. Connor joins him, placing a hand on his shoulder, and the two of them exchange a look that tells me they’re having a silent conversation.
Dad holds me at arm’s length, his eyes moving over me like he’s searching for injuries. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Good as new,” I insist with a smile. “I really am. I wish you hadn’t gone to all this trouble.”
“I told you she was all right,” Forrest reminds him, standing on the other side of the room. So this is where he was headed when he left me. Now I know why it seemed like he was lying when he said I was no trouble.
Dad ushers me to a leather chair nearby and insists I take a seat. “Your mother and I were so worried.”
“I’m sorry I worried you.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” He glares at Wilde, who, at this exact moment, is elbowing his way close to me.
I reach for him without thinking, taking his hand. “I really am okay,” I whisper in case he’s worried.
He squeezes my hand and offers a brief but warming smile. “You should have stayed downstairs.”
“Don’t tell my daughter what to do. You’ve done enough of that already,” Dad snarls.
