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Murmured voices drift through the doorway. Max? Maybe some of the other guards. A female too.
I push back the blankets and slide from the bed. My body is tender. My legs are only slightly steadier than they were a few hours ago. The alcohol’s still affecting me. Guess I did have too much to drink.
Without turning on the bathroom light, I search for my clothing. I don’t bother with a bra, or panties, not that I could put my panties on—they are ripped in half, laying on the floor.
I’m half in my jeans when Kieran's shadow fills the bathroom doorway.
Without looking at him, I say, “I’d like to get dressed.”
He’s breathing like he’s got something to say. The sound is echoing around in the bathroom.
“Please. Let me have some privacy.”
After a minute, he backs away. I straighten my clothes, splash my face, and say a prayer for strength.
He’s standing by the bed when I walk out. On the top of the duvet is a tray with some food and a bottle of water. Beside the plate is a pill bottle with aspirin on the label.
In his hand is a pink flower.
I’m not sure what to do. I’m frozen watching that flower spin in his fingers. It’s tattered under his touch. The stem bent at odd angles.
Me and that flower have that in common.
Finally, I snap out of my daze. “Did you meet with my father?”
"Aye, I did, as planned.”
“And what did he say?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
I let out an angry huff. Stride toward the bed and grab the aspirin. I can tell already I’m going to need it.
He watches intently as I swallow two pills, chasing them with the cold water.
“Eat. It will help the hangover.”
I cut him a side glance and make a snide remark using his fake name. “Thanks, Doctor Conner.”
But I don’t eat. I sit on the bed and look up at him. He twists the flower between his fingers. Petals begin to drop off one by one, landing between his boots.
After a bristling silence, I ask, “Are you going to talk to me?”
“Yes. An apology.” He tosses what’s left of the delicate lily on the tray of food. “You didn’t deserve my ire.”
I draw a shaky breath. “I agree.”
He stretches his neck. Rubs his hand over his face. “I realize that telling you I love you during that—” He throws an angry hand toward the bathroom. “Is the most fucked up thing I’ve ever done to a woman.”
We look at each other in the awful silence that follows. My stomach ties itself into a knot. “I didn’t expect that,” I admit.
He takes a step toward me. His fingers are incredibly tender when he strokes them through my hair. His voice is low and filled with frustration. “I didn’t either.”
“I’m just not going to think about it. I can’t.”
He sighs heavily. “Well, I am.”
When I look up at him, the expression he is wearing makes me feel gravely concerned.
