I knew what he was asking, and I held out my hands, which had stopped shaking—mostly.
“Nausea? Headache? Paranoia?”
“Yes, yes, no,” I replied. “But my mate is currently unconscious, so I think I get a pass on the first two.”
“And you’ll tell me if anything changes?”
“Of course.”
“What’s going on?” Charlie asked suspiciously, looking between us. “Were you wounded?”
“I’m fine, Charlie,” I replied. “What have I missed?”
“Adamson’s locked in the pool house,” Ambrose replied. “He’s not talking.”
“Of course he isn’t,” I grumbled.
“Arthur’s on his way,” my father added. “We called him this morning.”
“You think that’s the best play?” I asked, glancing around the table.
“I think that by the time I called him, he’d already gotten word of two headless generals and knew one was missing. If we’d waited any longer, it could’ve looked like we were hiding something.”
I nodded, hesitant to argue about it. The day before, I would’ve pointed out that Arthur had lied to us when he’d said he thought Zeke’s death was an isolated incident. I would’vereminded them that he’d secretly contracted Dalton to find information, leaving us in the dark.
After last night, I was worried that they’d assume it was the paranoia that my father had asked about.
“Rosemary’s awake,” Ian called from the doorway to the medical room.
My heart pounded as I lurched to my feet and raced toward my mate. When I made it to her bedside, she was still groggy and scowling.
“Hey, baby,” I greeted, slowing as I moved toward the head of the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Better than you look,” she replied. “What the hell happened to you?”
“He was awake all night,” Gary informed her.
Rosemary groaned and leaned her head back against the pillow. “Worried about me?”
“Maybe a little,” I conceded, leaning close. “You were in pretty bad shape when we got there.”
“I was still kicking ass and taking names when you got there,” she argued stubbornly, her gaze roaming over my face.
“Fair point.”
“You should sit down before you fall down. Here, I’ll scoot—” Her words broke off with a wheeze as she tried to use her arms to shift sideways.
“Stay where you are,” I ordered quickly, leaning my hip on the edge of the bed, “I’m fine right here.”
“Fuck,” she moaned, wincing as she lifted her hand to her wounded shoulder. “What the hell?”
“You need to give yourself a little more time,” I cautioned. “Just sit still.”
“Why the hell isn’t my arm working?” she asked, flexing her fingers slowly.
“You can move your fingers,” I replied, relief sweeping through me.
“Why wouldn’t I be able to move my fingers?” She rotated her wrist just fine, but when she tried to lift her arm, nothing happened. “Fuck.”
