I blink a few more times, and the blur shifts, sharpens, and finally my vision comes back to me.
Callum stands beside the bed, in one of his crisp black suits, perfectly tailored. His left arm is tucked into a sling, dark blue against the crisp white of his shirt. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, more than I've ever seen on him, and there are bruises fading along his cheekbone. He wobbles slightly, like he's favoring one leg.
My heart clenches instantly.
"You're okay," I say, my voice raspy and dry, like I've been swallowing sand.
He lets out a short laugh.
"Yeah, bullet broke my foot. I have to wear this walking cast thing for a few weeks," he says, gesturing down at his leg with his good hand. "How are you?"
I smile. Only Callum would be so dismissive, like shattered bones and being shot are nothing more than minor inconveniences.
"I feel like I was hit by a truck." I try to push myself up and immediately regret it. Pain flares through my shoulder, and I fall back against the pillows with a groan.
"Don't move so much," Callum says, stepping closer, his good hand reaching out as if to steady me even though he's not touching me yet. "The doctors said the wound needs time to heal. The blade tore some muscles, nicked some important stuff. They had to go in and repair it."
I close my eyes for a moment, breathing through the throbbing. "How long was I out for?"
"Four days."
My eyes shoot open. "Four days?"
"Yeah," he says, his jaw muscles flexing. "The knife Cormac used was contaminated with something. Some kind of bacteria, so you got a pretty bad infection."
Callum reaches out and grabs my hand, his fingers wrapping around mine. They're warm and solid, and he gives me a gentle squeeze.
"You almost died."
I stare at him, trying to process what he's saying, but it's like he's telling me about someone else. I was unconscious, so it's like falling asleep and waking up to someone telling you some crazy things happened to you. It almost doesn't seem real.
"Really?" I ask, the word floating out of me in a confused whisper.
"Yeah," he sighs and drops his voice low. "I told the doctor if you did, so would he."
A small laugh comes up from somewhere deep in my chest, surprising me. It hurts, but I can't stop the smile that spreads across my face. Callum's mouth curves in response, that rare, devastating smile that transforms his sharp features into something almost soft.
"Anyhow," he continues, his thumb rubbing the back of my hand, "I had you placed in this private suite. What do you think?" he asks, looking around. "Almost one thousand square feet of luxury, if hospitals can have such a thing."
For the first time, I actually look around the room.
It's enormous. The bed I'm lying in is positioned near floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook what looks like a garden, green and peaceful in the afternoon light. There's a sitting area with a leather couch and two armchairs with a throw blanket draped over each one.
There's also a flat-screen television mounted on the wall and a small dining table. Fresh flowers sit in a crystal vase on the nightstand, their colorful petals making me smile.
"I didn't know hospital rooms could be this big," I say, still taking it in.
"Money buys a lot of things," Callum says. "Privacy included."
I turn my attention back to him, and everything starts coming back, and my smile fades from my face.
"I'm sorry I left." The words come out quiet, heavy with guilt. "I was..."
"I know," he says, cutting me off gently.
He shifts, easing himself down onto the edge of the hospital bed beside me. The mattress dips under his weight. "I know you went thinking you would save my mother. You have nothing to feel sorry for."
He takes my hand and lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles. The gesture is so tender, so unexpected, that my throat tightens. This is a side of him I was only beginning to see before everything went to hell, the man beneath the Don, the heart beneath the armor.
