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"I can walk, you know," Alize says, looking up at me with a sly smile on her plump lips. "You don't have to cart me around in this thing."
It's been a week since I found Alize.
She's nearly the picture of health again, her brown skin glowing in the chilly sunlight. Most of her bruises have faded, and her hand is in a sling.
I have no idea what this girl's made of—she's survived so much in such a short space of time and each time, she bounces back stronger than the last—but I'm glad she's here. I'm glad she still smiles at me like I'm the only man in the world.
I'm glad she's mine.
"The doctor suggested it," I lie. Dr. Khatri said she could walk if she wants. But I don't want to chance it. I already don't trust him because he told my father about her pregnancy, even though it’s not exactly his fault. "You can walk when you don't get winded going to the bathroom."
Alize rolls her eyes.
I laugh, tempted to kiss her pout.
We have a moment of peace for all the five minutes it takes for me to wheel her into the foyer. The house is mostly quiet. Apart from the four Empire soldiers who travelled here with us and a housekeeper polishing the floor, there's nobody around.
But that won't be the case for long.
According to Stuart, my father's here.
I kept him on watch duty even after we found Alize, as I spent so much of my time away from the estate by her side at the hospital, and later at the Empire recovery centre she was transferred to as soon as she was past the worst.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, wheeling her toward the kitchen.
The sound of wheels echo in the cavernous hallway.
"Starving. I would love some real food," she quips. "The food at the recovery centre was terrible."
"I think the word you're looking for is nutritious."
She giggles. "Whatever. Just get me some real food, please."
I wheel her into the kitchen, pleased to find that the woman I'm looking for is sitting at one of the islands, reading a trashy tabloid magazine. There's some salacious gossip about the royal family splashed over the cover.
Ingrid might be the only person here who doesn't mind looking like she's not working—she's proved herself to be too integral to our family for my father to ever consider firing her. And she milks it every chance she gets.
She looks up when we enter, tossing her magazine down to hurry over to us. Her smile is warm, and her gaze is focused on Alize. As much as I tried to keep news of Alize's kidnapping and recovery quiet, it still spread around.
I got an earful from Tara while Alize was still asleep at the hospital, and even Nya's text message was a bit curt while checking in. Once Ezra was satisfied that Alize had been properly treated, he was back to his usual self. Graham, while concerned about Alize's condition, gave me the usual spiel—he was livid that I let Michel go.
The only person who hasn't judged me so far is Vance.
It's up in the air how this will go with Ingrid.
"Gosh, I was worried sick about you," Ingrid coos, fussing with Alize. She pinches her cheeks, twisting her face to examine her as if the doctors might have missed something. "You look so gaunt."
"I'm so hungry, Ingrid," Alize says, wrapping her arms around Ingrid's waist.
The older woman looks up at me then, smacking me on my forearm. "You haven't been feeding her?"
"The doctors wanted her to stick to a specific diet while she was recovering." I click my tongue. "Please get her something to eat."
Ingrid narrows her eyes then turns her attention back to Alize. "Come, I'll whip something up for you."
Alize bounds out of the chair, tossing the blanket that I had wrapped around her into the wheelchair. The two of them move deeper into the kitchen, just like I had hoped. I stand, watching them for a few moments.
It's fine to step away from her for a few minutes.
