Behind Matt, James’ voice sliced through the tension. “We need to get him to a hospital, now!”
Without hesitation, Matt rose with Andy cradled in his arms as if he were something precious and irreplaceable—which, damn it all to hell, he was.
Outside, the predawn light had lost its battle with daybreak, and medics descended upon them like guardian angels clad in navy blue scrubs. They took Andy from Matt’s arms with practiced urgency, and for a moment Matt was lost—watching them whisk Andy away left him hollowed out.
Tory stepped forward, his voice pulling Matt back from the precipice of despair. “Go to Andy,” Tory said firmly. “We’ll clean up this mess.”
With a curt nod, Matt clambered into the waiting car, his thoughts a whirlwind of what-ifs and prayers whispered to any deity listening. As Vegas gave way to sterile hospital corridors, Matt clung to hope like a lifeline in a raging sea.
The hospital, a beacon of modern medicine under the Caine family’s illustrious banner, received Matt with a swift efficiencythat was both reassuring and impersonal. Matt paced the sterile corridor like a caged lion. His thoughts ran wild—prayers, curses, bargains with any deity that would listen—all for Andy’s safety.
Time crawled by on hands and knees until the doctor finally emerged, looking as unruffled as if he’d done nothing more taxing than complete a particularly challenging crossword puzzle.
“Mr. Caine,” he began with a practiced calm that grated on Matt’s last nerve.
“Well?” Matt demanded, his voice tight with barely leashed panic.
“Mr. Donovan is stable,” the doctor said, and it was as if he’d thrown Matt a lifeline. “No internal injuries, but he did lose quite a bit of blood. We’re giving him a transfusion now.”
A deep breath shuddered out of Matt’s chest—a tempest of relief. “Thank you,” he managed to say, though it felt like he’d swallowed sandpaper.
Soon after, Matt found himself sitting beside Andy in a private room that whispered luxury in every artful detail—a room reserved for those whose bank accounts were as padded as the plush armchairs that graced its corners. Exhaustion clung to him like a second skin; his eyes drooped shut, and despite his best efforts to remain vigilant, sleep claimed him in its silent grasp.
It was late afternoon when Andy’s eyes fluttered open—a flicker of consciousness returning to his battered form. At his side in an instant, Matt clasped Andy’s hands with an intensity born of fear and longing.
“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” he teased, taking Andy’s hand in his own.
Andy stared at him long and hard before his lips curved into a weak smile. “Matt? You’re real, right?”
Matt chuckled softly. “Of course I’m real, pet.”
“You look horrible,” Andy observed with frankness only the bedridden could afford.
“And here I thought I’d mastered therugged billionairelook,” Matt replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Andy snorted. “You look like you’ve been dragged backward through a hedge fund. What about me?” he winced slightly as he shifted in bed. “I feel like I’ve gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.”
Matt laughed—a sound like sunlight breaking through clouds—and it filled the room with warmth and life until Andy laughed too, only to groan as pain lanced through him. Matt leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to Andy’s lips—a promise wrapped in tenderness.
“I love you,” he whispered against those bruised lips—words heavy with emotion and unguarded truth.
Andy swallowed hard before whispering back, his gaze softening, “Love you too—flaws, irritations and all.”
Matt grinned—a glint in his eye now. “I’ll work harder at being irritating just for you.”
“Oh yeah?” Andy’s voice was soft but carried an edge of challenge. “Just wait until I’m better. I’ll be arming myself with your silk tie—and then you’d better prepare yourself.”
“I’m always prepared for you,” Matt assured him with an intensity that promised more than words could say. “And I’m looking forward to beinglovingly torturedby my little spitfire.”
Twenty-Seven
THE WATCHER
From the shadowed confines of his sleek black car, the Watcher’s eyes narrowed as he took in the chaos at Carlos’ dilapidated warehouse. His gaze fixed on Matt, who emerged from the grim building, his usually sharp suit rumpled and stained, a stark contrast to the polished billionaire image he portrayed. His hair stuck out at odd angles, and stubble darkened his jawline, giving him a rugged edge that should have looked ridiculous but somehow made him even hotter.
There he was,the Matt Caine, so effortlessly embodying the role of the distressed yet undeniably attractive hero. The worry etched into Matt’s features tightened the Watcher’s stomach further. It irritated him how those stormy gray eyes—eyes he would do anything for—were now filled with concern for that little shit, Andy Donovan.
“Ugh,” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing as Matt cradled that little shit against him like some precious treasure. He wished it were him getting that kind of attention instead. The sight twisted something deep inside, a mixture of envy and bitterness.
