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We know that in the end, all kings must fall.
Sergei Stepanov is still out there, and he won’t stop until he has me.
Chapter XII
Serenity
Idon’t see Heath for two days.
I sit in this room alone. Food shows up on a tray, placed there by some servant I never see because I sleep a lot. I have no appetite, so the servant takes the tray away still full.
That fateful moment keeps playing on repeat through my mind—Nathan diving in front of the bullet Stepanov meant for me. After that, I see floods of blood, my brother’s life force, leaving his body and soaking my clothes.
I rub my hands on my thighs, trying to dispel the feel of the sticky substance.
Then I notice the bruises fading on my wrists. I shouldn’t have fought Heath so hard to remain with my brother. I skim a finger over the pale green that’s faded from blue. They don’t hurt, but they show me the lengths that Heath will go through in order to save me, even from myself.
With a sigh, I get up from the mattress and walk over to my shoes, sitting neatly by the bedroom door. For a while now, I’ve been thinking about visiting Patrick, to thank him for what he did for me.
I hardly process that I’ve slid my feet into my shoes or placed my hand on the door handle. The cloud of fog hovering over me from Nathan’s death carries me out into the hallway and down the stairs.
The beauty of the house is shrouded in the same thick haze. When I open the front door, a guard looks up at me.
“Do you need something, miss?” he asks in a Boston accent. Doesn’t surprise me that one of the Irish mob that’s so prominent in Boston would join forces with the Connollys here in Detroit. He may even be a relative.
“I need to go to the hospital to see Patrick. Do you know where he is?”
The man nods and tilts his head for me to follow. Ten minutes later he drops me at the front door of the hospital and I locate Patrick’s room. As I pass the nurse’s station and see vases of flowers sitting there, I wish I’d stopped and picked something up for my friend. Not that he’d care about flowers.
When I enter his room, he’s sitting up in bed, a tray of hospital lunch before him.
I rap on the door twice, and he looks my way. For a moment, I’m sure I’ve made a mistake in coming here. He hates me for what happened, and how can I blame him?
Then the corners of his lips tip upward in that familiar smile I know from our childhood. His blue eyes smile too, and he waves me into the room.
As soon as I see the bandage on his leg, it hits me again how close he was to losing his life too. Gulping, I fidget next to the bed.
“Sit here next to me,” he says in a voice that’s rusty from disuse.
I gently sink to the mattress so as not to hurt him. But looking into his eyes, relief floods me. He’s going to be fine.
Lowering my stare to the white sheets, I trace the lines of the wordsProperty of Detroit Medical Centerstamped on the corner.
I feel Patrick’s stare on me and lift my eyes to his.
Whatever he sees on my face has him shaking his head. “It’s not your fault, Serenity.”
“But I—”
“No,” he says in a firm voice. “You were just living your life, trying to do the best you could with the cards that were dealt to you. You didn’t ask for your brother to get you mixed up in his disaster.”
At the mere mention of my brother, I choke up. Patrick sees my struggle and squeezes my hand. “I’m sorry about what happened to Nathan.”
With supreme effort, I swallow the lump sticking in my throat.
“I’m glad you’re on the mend, Patrick.”
“We figured out how Sergei and his crew found where we’d moved you.”
