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“I’m sorry,” I tell him quietly. I arrange my arm around him and hold him as close as my weakened limbs will allow. He says nothing, and it’s as much as I deserve, but it’s okay. I know what he wants—what he needs.
Phoenix says nothing. He just turns his face against my shoulder and rubs it back and forth, breathing in deep like he’s trying to drown in my scent. I know the feeling a little too well, and the comfort I’m getting from him now feels like almost violent relief.
Unable to help myself, I push the fingers of one hand into his hair and grip until I hear him suck in a breath. “I need you.”
He grunts, then lets out a deep-chested growl as he shifts up, buries his face in my neck, then bites down until I feel the skin break. It’s probably nothing my body needs right now, but I let him do it. I need to feel the kind of pain I choose instead of the pain forced on me. I push against his mouth, and he moves his sharp teeth up to my jaw, marking me as his.
“If I could ever see one thing again, it would be my bruises on your body,” he says into my ear.
I groan and turn my head to kiss him. He tastes like copper, and his tongue is hot as it forces itself past my teeth. I swallow his breaths like they’re my own, and eventually, he pulls apart, rocking his forehead against mine.
“Never again.”
I nod against him. “It’s done. The rest…” I don’t finish my sentence. My brain is too foggy, and I’m still trying to process how to go forward and how I’m going to handle bringing one more soul close to mine. It’s not even allowing myself that much more vulnerability—it’s knowing what I will do to her.
I’m the only one who hasn’t touched her because the moment I do, there’s no going back. She will bear the mark of the King of Hell—she will assume the throne as Hades’ queen—and just like my boys, her heart will blacken.
“I can hear you thinking,” Phoenix eventually mutters as he settles back against my side. “Whatever it is can wait until morning.”
I hear the fatigue in his voice and know he hasn’t slept much—if at all. I loosen my grip on his hair and begin to pet him, and I only allow myself to slip toward unconsciousness once I feel his body relax and his breathing begin to even out.
* * *
Morning comeswith a sharp dose of reality. Phoenix is gone before I’m awake, and I open my eyes to find Cameron Chase, one of my younger physicians, checking my vitals. I grit my teeth as I allow him to go through the motions, and it’s only when he’s prodding at the box that my IV is running through that I realize I can move my left leg a little more.
I test both thigh muscles, and the pain is immediate, forcing a sharp grunt from my chest.
He offers me a smirk, and I wonder if it’s only because I’m damn near incapacitated that he’s so fucking bold with me right now. “Yeah, that’s going to happen for a good, long while. I was informed you were interested in disconnecting your epidural. I want to do it slowly so the pain doesn’t overwhelm you.”
I hit the button on the bed to raise it up a bit more, and I feel like some ancient invalid in a nursing home. It’s hard to be an intimidating mafia leader when I’m in an assless gown, unable to voluntarily piss without a tube up my dick.
“Trust me, I can handle the pain,” I tell him.
He gives me a skeptical look, but he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t offer to speed up the process either, though. The only reason I let him get away with it is that he’s the top ortho surgeon in this half of the country, and he’s just morally grey enough that my money supersedes at least some of the Hippocratic oath he took…or whatever the fuck doctors do these days.
I manage to shift my position a little easier, and while it still feels like my missing foot is on fire, it’s nothing I can’t manage. It feels good to move, and I wriggle the five toes I have left before glancing over at him as he takes a seat.
“So…the good news is we got ahead of your infection. You shouldn’t need more than another round of antibiotics.”
I grimace, thinking of the hazy, drugged-out memory I have of some nurse cleaning me up after my stomach revolted and I puked all over myself. I’m looking forward to throwing the memory of that experience into a black hole. “Alright. That makes it sound like you have bad news.”
“The bad news,” he says, meeting my gaze steadily, “is that the person who did that”—he gestures at my stump—“didn’t know what they were doing.”
I laugh, unable to stop myself. “No shit. They shot my foot halfway off, then probably used a pocketknife to finish the job.”
He looks a little green around the edges, which is fair. He was too young to have been here when James lost his hand, so the most he’s dealt with from us is a few bullet wounds lodged in femurs. He knows what we do—who we are and what might happen—but this is the first glimpse of what it means to really be on my payroll.
“So,” I say after a second, and he jolts like he was lost in thought, “what does that mean for me?”
“Ah,” he says. He folds his hands between the gap in his knees. “More surgery.”
My eyes narrow. “Absolutely not.”
Cameron sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s dealing with a petulant toddler, and to be honest, that’s kind of how I feel. I haven’t had proper food, rest, or a decent fuck in too long. Hell, I’ve barely even touched the woman in my home that I plan to make my wife. So sue me if I’m not in the best mood.
“It’s either now or later, but you’re not going to get a prosthetic on that thing without me being able to go in and clean it up. We need to shorten the bone so there’s enough calf muscle to wrap around it. Otherwise…” He trails off, and I get the idea. I haven’t ever been through it, and I certainly don’t have a medical degree, but it doesn’t take a genius to understand.
“I don’t have time for that shit right now.”
