AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“All of the footage should be backed up on the servers,” Nathan muses with a puzzled expression.
“They didn’t get a chance to sync before they were disconnected.” At least, that’s what the security forces told me.
Nathan closes the folder and looks up. “You organized a task force.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been doing this investigation on your own?”
“I have.”
He looks impressed. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more help.”
If he were sorry about that, he would be working and not scrounging for blowjobs from his mistress. “You will be. Once you’re fully recovered.”
“I think if I’m cleared for sex, I’m cleared for work.” He pushes himself up straighter on the pillows and cautiously moves his legs to put his feet on the floor. “Could you hand me my cane?”
It’s the first time I’ve noticed the cane tucked between the nightstand and the bed. Hammered black metal, topped with a swooping silver grip that ends in a carved wolf’s head. It’s regal, and extremely extra, perfect for Nathan.
He uses the cane for balance as he rises, unsteady, and I’m shocked to realize that this is the first time I’ve seen him upright in over a month. He’s nowhere near as a powerful and strong as I remember, and a familiar fear slashes through my heart. It’s the terror I felt when I thought he would die. It’s what I felt when I saw his insides spilling out and heard his screams while the medics worked on him.
I’m not sure I’ll ever forget that torturously specific fear.
“You don’t have to—” I begin, swallowing back sudden tears.
“No, no, I promised myself that today I would try to return to at least some semblance of normality.” He takes a few steps and pauses, his expression crumpling. “Oh, Bailey. Are you crying?”
I swipe at my cheeks and lie, “No.”
He sits back down with a groan of pain he can’t wholly suppress, and pats the bed beside him.
“Not until you change the sheets,” I snap. Like hell I’m going to let him comfort me in the bed his side piece was rolling around in.
He sighs in annoyance, but his voice is gentle when he says, “I put so much on you, unfairly.”
“No shit?” I cross my arms. “You didn’t even tell me you were suddenly king of Greater London. You just spring that on me. A whole different pack to run.”
“And then I was appallingly rude, getting all these stab wounds,” he jokes.
“It’s not funny.” Gross thing I just witnessed aside, my miserableness exhausts me, and I sit on the bed beside him. “I was never in a position to be a queen. I wasn’t in a position to manage a Tim Hortons, for fuck’s sake.”
He chuckles at that, but I know he’s not making fun of me. For reasons I can’t fathom, our arguments seem to endear me to him even more.
“The only reason I was able to keep things from falling apart without you was because I had to,” I say.
“You had to, and you found a way.” He puts an arm around me, and I’m acutely aware that I’m close to his injured side.
I stiffen and lean slightly away. “Careful, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not going to,” he assures me. Then he pauses and asks, “Do you want to see it?”
“I got a pretty good look at it when they brought you into the safe room,” I say, shaking my head.
“I know you did.” He undoes the belt of his robe and shrugs out of one sleeve. “But it’s not that bad anymore. You need to see that I’m actually all right.”
Well, just decide what I need, then, I gripe to myself, but he does have a point. How can I trust that Nathan is truly going to be okay if all I’m imagining under his clothes is a big pile of bloody macaroni hanging out of his side?
He’s naked under the dressing gown, and I note that he’s lost some muscle definition. Obviously, he hasn’t been working out, but the quickness with which his body has atrophied startles me. It’s only been a few weeks and he’s already wasting away?
“See?” he says, leaning a little so I can get a full view of the scar that rips from mid-ribcage and across his abdomen in a diagonal slash to his opposite hip. He really was gutted.
“I didn’t realize how long the cut was.” I reach out as if to touch it and quickly pull my fingers back. Why the hell would I want to touch a gross, red scar still dotted with glints of metal staples? But it intrigues me, the idea that somehow he could recover from something that looked so fatal.
He touches the end of the scar, near his hip. There are bubbled pink pinpricks bracketing the wound, where some of the staples have already been removed. “It’s grotesque, I know.” With a grim chuckle, he says, “We can leave the lights off.”
