“It was Sofia as well. Mostly Sofia. She’s a much better nurse than me. She’s sleeping now.” She returns to unwrapping the bandages, her movements gentle but efficient. “She made me rest earlier. And eat.”
“Good.”
She’s too focused on my hands to respond. I watch her work, the careful way she peels back the gauze, the slight crease between her brows when she sees the raw flesh beneath.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“For what?”
“For this.” Her voice catches. “For all of it.”
“I chose to go to that fight and brazenly step into that ring. None of this is anyone’s fault but mine, and certainly not yours, Adora.”
“But it is my fault. You went to a bar because I hurt you, and that’s how Dashamir was able to get to you.” Her hands still on the bandages. “I pulled away when you told me you were falling for me, and—”
“Look at me.”
She does, reluctantly. Tears shine in her eyes.
“This isn’t your fault,” I say again, firmer this time. “Dashamir would have come after me no matter what.”
“But—”
“No buts. You saved me, remember? You walked into that ring. You walked into that compound, and you…” My head rises from the pillow in bewilderment. “You somehow got me out of there. How the hell did you manage that?”
She swipes the tears from her cheeks and takes a shaky breath. “I’ll tell you in a minute. First, there’s something you should know. Something I should have told you in the car, or even before that.”
Adora struggles to meet my eyes. Whatever this is, it’s been weighing on her. “Okay. Tell me.”
She sets down the bandages, pulls her chair closer, and takes my wrist in both her hands.
“My father gave me poison. Cyanide. He ordered me to kill you. That’s why he agreed to our arranged marriage, so I could get close to you and poison you, and he could take over Vici territory without a fight.”
I go very still.
“I accepted the poison,” she continues, her voice breaking. “I took the bottle, and I thought about using it. I should have thrown it away, but I just kept carrying this terrible secret and hoping I’d figure out what to do.”
Tears are streaming down her face now.
“That night at the restaurant, I had it in my purse. I was going to put it in your wine or your food. But then you were so kind to me, so gentle, and I couldn’t do it. Then I couldn’t even tell you about it because I was terrified you’d hate me.”
Her hands are shaking around my wrist.
“Then in the car, when you told me you were falling for me and your life was in my hands, all I could think about was that poison in my nightstand. How could I tell you I felt the same way when I’d been carrying death meant for you? How could I—”
“Adora.” I interrupt her spiral. “Look at me.”
She does, her face wet with tears, eyes wide with fear and guilt. This poison has made her terrified of me. She knows exactly what her father would do if she refused him, and she’s worried that I’d do the same thing.
“You were afraid I’d hurt you if I found out about the poison,” I say, my voice heavy with dismay.
“It did cross my mind.” She lets out a sob. “Are you angry with me?”
“Did you poison me?”
“No. Never. I couldn’t.”
She’s been carrying this weight for weeks. Terrified of her father and wary of me. Caught between two impossible choices and hating herself for not being brave enough to do what she believes is right.
