I point my finger toward it and look at Daddy. After a moment, I find my voice. “Zo—Zoan?”
He nods.
Mama sits beside him and asks, in shock and horror, “What happened?”
Daddy doesn’t say anything for a while, then speaks in a tired, low voice. “He was attacked. Got shot.”
He was attacked.
He was attacked.
I sit down beside Mama, my eyes fixed on the closed door.
“How long has he been inside?” Mama asks.
“Seven hours,” Daddy mutters.
My head snaps toward him.
“What’s going on, Alexander?” Mama’s voice breaks.
Before Daddy can reply, the ward door opens and a team of doctors comes out. We get up instantly. They approach us. The eldest-looking doctor glances toward Daddy.
“The operations were successful. Hopefully, he will be conscious in a few hours.”
Few men wheel a stretcher out from the operating room. I watch the pale face of the man lying on it and follow them.
They take him into a large ward and shift him onto a hospital bed.
After recording the initial readings and stabilizing him, the nursing staff step back and leave the ward. I take a chair from the wall and slide it close to his bed.
I watch him for a long time, not fully understanding my own emotions, there is a small, numb relief that he’s breathing, an ache for the pain he must be feeling, and a fear that threatens to consume me if I let my thoughts run too far, if I let myself consider what could have happened. If I go down that road I will spiral until nothing is left but a crying wreck.
He is fine. My Zoan is fine, and he will open his eyes soon.
The ward door opens and Mama comes in, gives my shoulder a light squeeze, stays for a few minutes, then leaves. I hear her sob quietly before the door closes.
I stay seated in the same position for an unmeasurable amount of time, watching his chest rise and fall as proof that he is breathing. Doctors come and go to check on him. Mama and Daddy return several times. Once again the door opens. I don’t look up at any of them, I won’t let my gaze leave his chest.
Leo pulls another chair and sits beside me, silent.
After a long time he speaks. “He killed thirty-four men alone.”
“Are you bragging about his kill count when he’s in this state?”
“Come on, don’t be so depressed. We all know he’s fantastic. In fact, I can bet he’s unconscious because he wants sick attention. You don’t know how much of an attention seeker he is.”
I turn my head toward him, trying to figure out how this bastard could even joke at a time like this.
He shrugs. “I’m serious. Just tell him a man has sent you roses and a ring, and he’ll open his eyes in the next second.”
Maybe I’ve officially lost my mind, because there’s no other explanation for me thinking about using Leo’s bullshit idea.
I lean closer to him and comb back the hair on his forehead with my fingers. “Zoan, don’t you think Roxion is a good man? I think I can reconsider the idea of marrying him.”
No reaction comes. Leo nudges my arm. “Carry on.”
I definitely need this long-overdue therapy.
