AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The ward's walls were made of thick, heavy-duty plastic that was shaped like a cube so Dagda was enclosed in a sterile environment.
Because it was transparent, I could see him sitting up in his hospital bed, his chest covered in blood-stained bandages, which told me his wounds were still leaking.
“Infection?” I inquired.
Conor hummed.
I cut him a look, saw the exhaustion in his eyes, and silently promised him we’d sleep on the flight over the Atlantic. No way in fuck was I letting him head to the funeral tomorrow as tired as he was now.
It was a weird feeling caring about his well-being. Not because he didn’t deserve it, but because I’d never felt that way about a man before. I guessed I had with Maverick; however, it wasn’t like this.
I wanted to cup Conor’s cheek and press a kiss to his eyelids.
I wanted to get into bed with him, to make sure that he slept.
I wanted mushy shit. Mushy when I’d never let myself get like that before.
I didn’t know if it was a weakness or a strength, which put me on edge, but I had to trust that it’d work itself out in the end.
Loving Conor was the simplest thing I’d ever done, but that didn’t mean complications wouldn’t arise from it as a result.
I was prepared for those complications and that was all I could do.
“You’re staring.”
I hitched a shoulder. “You look tired.”
“I am.” He rubbed his eyes. “Ma mentioned something that got my mind racing and it made getting into the Canadian gun registry harder than it should have been.”
“What did she mention?”
“Match-fixing.”
When he gave me no other context, I rubbed his arm. “I need sleep too. We’ll get some rest on the plane.”
Quickening my pace because I wanted this interview over with, I made my way to the makeshift ward in the abandoned mall with him at my back.
A nurse in scrubs opened a zipper from inside the cube and shot us both disapproving glowers before she took her leave.
Dagda wasn’t wearing an oxygen mask, but he had it piped up his nose. His face wasn’t cut up any, but his chest was a maze of gunshot wounds.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” I drawled unsympathetically.
His eyes flickered open, and there was curiosity there. No fear. Intriguing. “Lodestar,” he greeted.
“My reputation precedes me?”
“No, you’re too much like your mother.” Eyes drooping, he chuckled under his breath. “You mean to tell me that I survived that fucking mess only to meet my end in this hellhole?”
I knew what he meant—black-site hospitals were the worst. The security vulnerabilities made it hard to rest and recuperate which was a vicious cycle because that was the only way you’d get out of the ward.
“I made a deal with your niece. I’m not going to kill you, Dagda. But I want answers.”
His expression was disbelieving. “What kind of answers do you think I have?”
“My mother was a Jorgmundgander hit?”
He tensed. “She was.”
