Page 9
I shove the candy in my pocket and pay, grabbing the cup. In the elevator, I take a long sip and barely contain the grimace. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter. Still fucking terrible.
The ICU wing splits into two sides, and I swing left instead of right, slowing near a case of windows. There’s a uniformed cop planted outside the room, arms crossed, posture stiff. He glances at me as I approach, eyes narrowing just enough to say he’s paying attention.
“No visitors,” he says.
“Relax,” I shoot back, jerking my chin toward the door. “I’m not here to hold his hand.” I step closer anyway, just enough to look through the small window. If anything, I’m here to make sure he never sets foot out of this hospital ever again.
Liam, the former Baron and current attempted murderer of Timothy Maddox, is inside, barely clinging to life. He’s barely recognizable under the bruises and swelling. Tubes run in and out of him like he’s more machine than man, chest rising and falling with the help of something that beeps in a steady, unforgiving rhythm.
They said the brain swelling was bad.
Yeah. No shit. Killian just about crushed his skull.
My grip tightens around the coffee cup, heat biting into my palm. I don’t let go. My jaw locks, teeth grinding as something ugly crawls up my throat–the urge to finish him for what he did to Arianette and the other girls–right here and now, but the last thing any of us needs is me getting arrested.
The cop shifts beside me. “You gonna keep staring, or…?”
I tear my gaze away, dragging a hand down my face. “Yeah. I’m done.”
I take another drink of the coffee, and push off the wall. When I push back into the King’s room, the chair by the bed is empty. I check the bathroom for her.
Empty.
My stomach drops, and I toss the drink into the trash and scan the empty space. “Ari?”
No answer. Panic claws up my throat. I step into the hallway and run into the nurse from before. “Have you seen her? The Baroness? Did anyone come in here?”
The nurse looks startled. “No, no one’s been in since they took the patient down for surgery.” Fear hits me like ice water. Someone could have taken her. In this fucking hospital, with everything falling apart, it would be too easy.
Jesus, why did I leave her alone?
I check the bathroom again, yanking the flimsy shower curtain aside, but I already know she’s not in there. I open the cabinet doors under the sink, then stare briefly at the narrow closet. Heart hammering, I pull the slim double doors open. She’s sitting tucked into one side, legs bent, forehead pressed against her knees, arms wrapped tight around herself.
“Doll Baby,” I exhale, relief crashing through me so hard my knees nearly buckle. I squat down to her level. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles into her knees.
“What are you doing in here?”
“Everything felt too big out there.” I glance over my shoulder at the small, cramped room. “Like I didn’t have anything to anchor onto.”
I turn back to the girl curled in the corner. Six months ago, I had nothing in my life but a criminal record and a weird invitation to a BRN recruitment party. Three months ago, I was pissed that this girl was mine to take care of, but not to own.
Now?
She’s wormed her way into my chest, tugging at feelings I didn’t think I was allowed to have.
“I’m back now, and I’m not going to leave again. Do you want to come back out?”
She gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. I don’t have to be a genius to understand that tight spots like this–closets and cages and closed-off spaces under the bed–that’s what she’s used to when shit goes wrong.
“Move over,” I tell her.
She looks up, eyes wide and glassy. “What?”
“Make some room for me, Doll Baby. I’m coming in.”
She shifts, and I shrug off my jacket and shoes before climbing in, lifting her easily so she is nestled in my lap, facing me. I pull the double doors closed behind us. The closet is pitch black except for a thin sliver of light leaking through the crack where the doors meet. It’s cramped, intimate, and the world outside feels miles away.
