“He’ll learn,” I say, and I mean it.
“Through and through wound,” the medic adds. “Appears to have missed everything important. He’s very lucky.”
I squeeze his hand again.
“Stay with me.”
“I will,” he whispers.
“Say it again.” My voice shakes. “For me.”
“I love you.” The words are raspy and raw. “I’m staying.”
I bend and kiss him. It’s not graceful. It’s not careful. It’s warm and salty and clumsy with relief. His hand comes up to the back of my neck, strong and steady enough to tell me he’s not going anywhere. The ambulance rocks, and for a second I have the strange impression we are floating—that the whole brutal night has let go of us and we are drifting toward something safer.
We break for breath. I rest my brow to his, eyes closed, our hands stacked over the small future between us.
The medic speaks into a handset and nods. “Two minutes.”
Two minutes to be with him like this. I’ll take every second. I count his breaths. I press my lips to his hair. I whisper a promise I know I can keep.
We’re going to make a life out of this.
“Say it again,” I murmur because I’m greedy and afraid, and I’ll never tire of hearing it.
“I love you,” he says.
I kiss him again, the night moving aside and letting us pass.
CHAPTER 46
CASSANDRA
New Year’s Day is perfect.
The sky is a pale blue ribbon, the streets quiet, as if the city has finally decided to take its long winter nap.
We bring Clara home from the hospital just after noon. She hates the wheelchair. Alex pushes it like it’s the most natural thing in the world while pretending he doesn’t notice her glare.
Damien opens the villa door with his left hand. His right side still aches, and there’s a tightness when he moves, but the wound turned out to be nothing too serious. Several stitches, some painkillers, and a round of antibiotics. He keeps brushing it off like it’s nothing. I keep looking at the bandage under his shirt, thinking of how close I came to losing him.
Clara sniffs the air as we roll her inside. “Hell of a place. And is that rosemary I smell?”
“It’s the roast for tonight,” I say proudly.
“Alright,” she says, trying to sit up straighter. “Help me stand before my legs go numb.”
“Doctor’s orders,” Alex says, which would sound stern if it weren’t spoken so softly. He slides an arm around her waist, and she pushes up, testing, biting back a flinch. They move together without discussing how—she uses his shoulder as a brace, her hand on his arm. When she’s steady on both feet, she lets out a breath and pretends she never needed him. He pretends not to notice.
We guide her to the room Damien had prepared last night—fresh linens, a low cozy chair by the window, a vase of crisp winter flowers. He tried to convince the doctors with the phrase “the best home care money can buy,” and when that didn’t do it, he convinced them by being Damien—immovable, calm, and somehow scarier when he smiles. Private nurses will be here tonight. A physiotherapist tomorrow.
I draw the curtains back and the winter sun spills in, washing Clara’s face, making her look fresher than she has in months.Her room looks south over the garden. The bare trees hold pockets of light as they wait to bloom again. Lanterns along the stone path sway in the breeze.
“Don’t tuck me in like an old lady,” she says as I fold the duvet over her legs. “I’m not eighty. I still have all my teeth.”
“Show-off,” I say, and she grins.
“Tell me if the pain spikes,” Damien says from the doorway. “Nurses will arrive at seven. Until then, I’m your tyrant.”
