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“That can mean a lot of things in our world,” I remind her.
She rolls her eyes. “Grey is a trafficking victim. She’s the widow of Máximo Martí. Do you know of that guy?”
I nod. Ecuador. Human and drug trafficking. The family died out five years ago with the death of Máximo Martí and the subsequent murder of Alexis Nina Blanco, the clan’s mom. They were one of the most ruthlessly cruel families in South America, a reputation built with their enemies’ blood, sweat, and tears. Kamila continues, “Her men would do anything for her, including take care of Carey Jean.”
“Dad, leave that to us. You should go to the hospital and be with Ivy. She needs you right now,” Alex says, and I stare at him, eyes bulging. I don’t know how to react.
“He’s right. We’ll handle it. You take care of our Ivy,” Fylox encourages me.
Kamila gives me a heartfelt nod, and I take a couple of steps back.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
IVY
Smolyakov curses at Jordan,slinging his arms at him. He’s playing with fire just to get Jordan to react.
But Jordan doesn’t get up from his seat on my bed. His arm is an armor of protection around my waist.
“Can you… Is that possible? Smolyakov wants to be murdered by you, but I don’t want his wish granted,” I ask Jordan in a whisper.
Without another word, Jordan waves at the guards that are stationed at the end of the corridor.
Smolyakov mumbles, lashing out. He yells at Jordan. There’s no reaction.
Palace guards take away Smolyakov, and his wish to die at Jordan’s hands vanishes, becoming an afterthought.
Jordan isn’t well, and perhaps that’s why my request to give Smolyakov a trial before deciding what to do with him was heard.
I didn’t rest while Jordan was gone because Smolyakov was nearby, and I didn’t trust him around Ignas. I kept my eyes directed at my injured friend, who’s still asleep in his room.
Jordan sits on my bed outside of Ignas’s room, and he stares at the ceiling. The occasional tremor he finds himself in betray his inner goings.
“Do you want to get out of here?” I ask him. “You should go to sleep. Eat something.”
“Murder doesn’t wash away with sleep or food,” he says, his voice slicing through the silence.
“I’m worried,” I confess.
“You shouldn’t be, little doe. I took care of Hugh Abbott,” Jordan says. He rubs his face with his hand, groaning. “It’ll be all right now.”
“What did he say?” I ask out of mere curiosity.
When Jordan remains quiet, I receive my answer. Whatever Hugh said, Jordan doesn’t want to hurt me with it. I go on, “Whatever he said, it doesn’t matter anymore. I love you.”
“I love you more,” he says, shifting toward me. When his hands touch me, I feel Hugh’s blood on his skin. Jordan’s as clean as ever, but I can sense Hugh’s death on him.
I revel in it.
I feel Jordan’s thumbs on my ears, kneading at me. I close my eyes, and I breathe him in. This isn’t my Mr. Winters, the one I’m intimately used to. He scrubbed himself with Fylox’s scentless soaps before he came here, and I can smell the faint citrus and heavy antiseptic on him.
He plants kisses across the outline of my face, ending with his nose rubbing against mine. “Little doe, if you need to be hurt, let it out. Don’t hold it in. I’ll be there for you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, snaking my arms around him. Jordan’s body is cold, but it’s still him. I’d rather freeze than let him go.
“Let’s help each other heal, little doe. Please.” His needy request warms my heart.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I tell him. I emulate his kisses, trailing along his strong jawline. His thick lips. His beautiful nose. He’s carved to perfection, and he’s all mine. His darkness. His light.
