“Then we respect her decision,” Rett says, though the words clearly cost him. “But we don’t give up without a fight. Not this time.”
Dane nods once, decisive.
Tristan pulls out his phone, already making lists, his brain shifting into high gear. “We need to get her out of here and back to the penthouse as soon as she’s stable.”
“I’ll coordinate with the doctor,” Dane says, already opening the door. “Get a full briefing on her condition, what to expect, how to monitor the marks.”
Rett nods, then turns to me. “Diego?—”
“I’ll make sure the penthouse is ready,” I say before he can finish. “Stock the kitchen. Get her favorite foods. Make sure everything is perfect.”
He looks at me for a long moment, then nods. “Good. I’ll handle the security aspects. Make sure there are no leaks about her condition. The last thing she needs is PackTrackr camping outside our door.”
I nod. But as the others file out, I find myself lingering, unable to tear my eyes away from Zoe’s still form.
Rett pauses at the door, looking back at me. “Diego?”
“I’ll be right there,” I tell him, not turning around. “I just need a minute.”
He hesitates, then leaves, the door closing softly behind him.
Alone now, I move closer to my mate. Our mate. I brush a finger across her jaw, hating how hot her skin still feels and hating even more the reason why.
“Lo siento, cariño,” I whisper, my voice breaking on the words. “I’m so sorry.”
She stirs slightly, as if she can sense my presence.
“I’ll make this right,” I vow.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Diego
“Alittle higher on the left side,” I direct, watching as Dane adjusts the portable medical monitor they’ve set up beside Zoe’s bed. Not her temporary guest room. Her real room. The one we spent that first night with her in. The one she should have been in all along.
“Like this?” Dane asks as he makes the adjustment.
“Perfect.” I step back, surveying the space with a critical eye.
The room has been transformed in the last twenty-four hours. Fresh flowers fill crystal vases on every surface, and no, they are not carnations. Their gentle fragrance helps to mask the antiseptic hospital smell that still clings to her skin. The sheets are new, soft Egyptian cotton in a pale lavender that complements her skin tone. A humidifier releases a gentle mist of cool air to ease her breathing.
A mix of books from her apartment, from carefully selected art history volumes to dog-eared romance novels and poetry collections, is stacked within easy reach on the nightstand.
Everything is perfect. Everything has to be perfect.
“The doctor said her fever’s stable,” Tristan says, leaningagainst the doorframe. “Not getting worse, but not getting better either.”
I nod, adjusting the blanket over Zoe’s sleeping form for the fifth time in as many minutes. “The marks?”
Tristan’s expression tightens. “Still fading.”
The bond is slipping away, hour by hour. We can all feel it. A slow unraveling that leaves a hollow ache in my chest when I let myself think about it too long.
“I’ve set up a rotation,” Rett says, joining us. He looks marginally better than he did at the hospital. He’s showered, at least, though the dark circles under his eyes remain. “We’ll take shifts. Someone with her at all times.”
“I’ll take first watch,” I say immediately.
None of them argues. They know this is something I need to do. Something I’ve been preparing for since we made our decision at the hospital.
