I nod.
“I have something for you.” He walks back to the computer and picks up a small white card beside it, then hands it to me. “In case you need it.”
I take the card, and the nurse tips his chin in acknowledgment before leaving the room. I look down to find Miss St. Claire’s information in simple black lettering. I roll my eyes.
“I won’t need it,” I whisper to myself. But I can’t bring myself to let go of it either. I swallow, hold onto the card, idly rotate it in my fingers. And then I glimpse something. Handwriting in a messy scroll on the back of the card. Not just anyone’s messy scroll—Alejandro’s.
I jolt upright, eyes widening on the message.
Proud of you.
He’ll live long enough for you to face him in court and send him to prison. I wanna see the look on his face when he realizes you’re the one putting him there. But once he’s behind bars, anything goes.
My lips part to release a breath of disbelief, and when I read the note again, I can’t help the small laugh that escapes. How in the world did he sneak into the hospital without being noticed? Apparently, my cousin has people everywhere.
The bed shifts beside me, and I look over at Easton. His eyes are heavy with sleep when they open. “Eva,” he says huskily before running a palm through his messy bedhead and down his face. “How long have you been up?”
I hand him the card and watch as he reads it.
His lips quirk, and he shakes his head.
“Wait.” My eyes narrow at his lazily amused expression. “What do you know that I don’t?”
“You sure you want the answer to that?” He cocks a brow, and that single heavy-lidded look sends a rush of liquid heat through me. Even in a hospital gown, he’s sexy as fuck.
I lift my chin. “I am now.”
He chuckles softly. “All right. Paul ... it’s gonna be a while before he gets used to walking—or pissing—again.”
“What do you mean? What exactly did my cousin do to him?”
Easton’s jaw twitches, but there’s a sudden shift in his expression. His gaze runs so dark a chill slides down my spine. After a beat, he shakes whatever the thought is away and says, “The only thing that matters now is that you don’t have to worry about him ever again.”
“I want to know what my cousin did,” I say, and even I’m surprised at the firmness in my voice. “Ineedto know, Easton. Please, tell me.”
He studies me for an eternity. When I don’t change my mind, he pushes out a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Shit. All right. Alejandro cut off his dick and burned it.”
My jaw drops. “What ... but ... he didn’t bleed out?”
Easton makes a face and looks away, like his next response might make him sick. “Ah, no. He almost died, twice, but Alejandro stopped the bleeding for both wounds and brought him back so he could watch everything.” He raises his brows. “Apparently, Paul cried like a baby before he passed out.”
“He ... he ...” I shake my head, picturing it. The image is so visceral it sends a violent thrill of satisfaction through me. Alejandro used to have a nickname for men who take advantage of women: TPS, a.k.a. Tiny Penis Syndrome. It’s childish and stupid, but paired with such a punishment, it brings an oddly contented smile to my face. “My twisted cousin,” I whisper lovingly. “He’s the best.”
“There’s more,” Easton says, grimacing as he starts to sit up.
“Easton,” I scold, urging him back down with a hand to his chest. “They have buttons for that.”
He laughs, a deep and raspy sound that shoots warmth up my neck and cheeks.
“What?” I push the blue arrow pointing up and allow the bed to lift him into a sitting position.
His lips twitch, and the, “Nothing,” he drawls feels like anything but.
I’m about to press him when something crosses my mind, and alarm zips down my spine. “How’d you know what Alejandro did? Who told you?”
“Vincent. He spoke to some of the officers working on the case.”
Fear and guilt weave together in a knot at the base of my throat, and I recall Alejandro’s words before we left the apartment:They’ll know I was here. I’ll make sure of it.“Oh my god.” I swallow, but the knot only grows thicker. “They know he was there.” What have I done?
