I shoot him a look that could fry him where he stands. “Don’t.”
He doesn’t listen. Of course he doesn’t. With one annoyingly smooth motion, he wheels the chair in front of me and—because this day can always get worse—he lifts me from the table and settles me into it as though I weigh nothing.
I hate the warmth of his arms around me, the way his scent curls into my lungs and I feel like I’ll never be able to exhale. I hate that, even now—with my pride scraped raw and my body stitched together by adrenaline and gauze—I lean into him, drawn to his steadiness.
Because the truth is, I don’t hate him. Not even close.
I love him.
Fiercely. Stupidly. With every broken, terrified piece of me that still believes in something as dangerous as hope.
But I can’t tell him that. Not yet.
Not when everything between us is sparking with contention.
Nolan doesn’t say anything as he pushes me out of the infirmary, but his eyes are on me. And for once since landing on this damn island, I don’t meet his gaze.
I don’t know if I want to see whatever’s in his eyes right now.
We roll past cottage after cottage, and before I know it, we’re back at my room. Nolan pushes me inside, then moves toward the bed, his hands slipping under my legs again.
I open my mouth to protest, but I don’t get the chance. In one fluid motion, he lifts me again and gently places me onto the bed.
He adjusts the pillows behind me, propping up my injured leg and that’s irritatingly thoughtful.
“I can do it myself.”
He shrugs. “Probably. But it wouldn’t have been as fun for me.”
I scowl, but he ignores me, grabbing a bottle of water from the table along with a couple of pills.
“Take these.” His voice is softer than I expect.
I hesitate, but the throbbing in my leg convinces me otherwise. I swallow them down, chasing them with a water, while he sinks onto the edge of the bed.
The air shifts. Suddenly, we’re not bickering. We’re just… here.
His elbows rest on his knees, hands clasped together, and when he looks at me, it’s different. Raw.
“You’re right,” he says, his voice quiet.
“About what?”
His fingers tap against his knee before he exhales. “Everything.” He looks away for a second, then back at me. “I’ll take care of it.”
I raise a brow. “Take care of it how?”
His jaw tightens. He meets my gaze. “The right way.”
Nolan means it. But I can’t let it stop there.
“Then do it, Rhodes.” My voice is sharp at the edges. “Not for me. Not for the pitch. For yourself. You don’t owe that man your silence. You don’t owe him your loyalty.”
His brows pull together.
“You’re not his puppet,” I say, softer now. “And you’re sure as hell not his shadow. So stop acting like one.”
A beat of silence swells between us, weighted and full of emotion.
