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Archie’s expression instantly falls. “He…uh…”
I step toward him. “What is it, Archie?”
“Creed was… Well, he was shot.”
My heart drops to the pit of my stomach, his words stealing my breath. “He what?” I place my hand on a nearby table, needing to steady myself against the sudden bout of vertigo consuming me. “Is he okay?”
He runs his fingers through his blond hair. “He’s got a bit of a flesh wound.”
“Where is he?” My chest squeezes, the shaking in my hands increasing as panic grips every inch of me.
It doesn’t matter that Creed was upright when we arrived here an hour ago. He was bloody shot. There’s no such thing as a harmless gunshot wound.
Archie opens his mouth to say something, probably tell me he has orders to take me straight back to the hotel while we await the royal household’s decision on whether I’m to continue on this trip.
Then he sighs. “Come with me.”
Archie places a hand on my elbow as he steers me out of the room, more of my protection team now lining the hallways. I want to ask if they caught the guy who tried to kill me, but I don’t care about that right now. All I do care about is making sure Creed’s okay. Until I see it with my own eyes, I won’t believe it.
After leading me down a few more hallways, Archie brings me to a large room, the only privacy afforded the dozen or so patients a thin curtain between beds. Reaching one of the partitions, he pulls back the curtain and allows me to enter, but stays just outside, giving me some privacy.
The instant I step inside, I stop dead in my tracks. Not because of the gaping wound on Creed’s left bicep.
But because he’s not wearing a shirt.
And he has tattoos covering his upper chest and arms.
When I arrived back in Belmont and saw Creed for the first time in nine years, I knew he looked bigger. Bulkier.
Sexier.
But seeing just how much more defined his body is leaves me momentarily stunned.
Makes me briefly forget my reason for being here.
Until he looks up from his mobile, his eyes locking with mine.
I snap out of my thoughts and storm the few feet toward him, unsure whether to hug him because he’s okay or yell at him for not telling me he was injured.
“You stubborn arse.”
I wrap my arms around him, trying to ignore how warm and inviting his skin feels. How much my pulse increases when I inhale his familiar scent.
How much I still ache to feel him on every inch of me.
“Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me?” I quickly drop my hold on him and direct my attention to his wound, bile rising in my throat when I see how deep it is.
“You were my priority. What did the doc say? How are your injuries?”
“You’re asking me about a few cuts when you’ve got a bullet lodged in your arm?”
“It’s a flesh wound.” He shrugs dismissively, as if he simply skinned his knee or stubbed his toe. “The bullet just grazed me, more or less. The only reason this is taking so long is because they needed to do x-rays to make sure it didn’t knick the bone.”
I glance at his arm again, the wound much deeper than anything I’d consider a “graze”.
“Seriously, Creed.” I drop my voice, fighting against the lump forming in my throat. “You should have told me.”
“Like I said…”
