“Get to Fitz.”
She hesitates.
“Go, baby. Please.”
Her whimpers fade as her footsteps do the same. She’s safe.
“Baby?” My father mimics before trying to hock up phlegm to spit at me but ends up choking instead. “I knew something was off with her. She was fool enough to fall for you?”
I land a blow to his jaw with what little strength is left in my bad arm, my dominant arm. I growl as the fight drains from me, adrenaline dying out. “That’s for my wife.” The next strike is weaker and a finger breaks when it lands in the same spot. “That’s for Cian. For Ayla.”
My body jerks roughly backward and I land on my ass ready to scrap.
Fitz rolls my father over, binding his wrists with zip ties before doing the same to his ankles. “Get to Lorien. I’ve got this fucker.”
“I—”
“Now. She needs you.”
That’s enough. I roll to all fours, regretting it instantly. My knees scream in pain. That was before collapsing onto my father and rolling on the ground. My right hand is mangled, and my shoulder will probably need more than Fitz’s care.
But my wife needs me. I limp away as quickly as I’m able, listening to Fitz whistle “Deep in the Heart of Texas” as if he has no care in the world.
63
talking spaghetti
Liam
Three nights later, I lie in bed with my wife, wishing like hell I could be inside her. Glad as fuck she’s alive for me to have that dream fulfilled, though it’ll be weeks, according to the doctor.
She has two broken ribs, bruises covering her torso, and nightmares that don’t involve ponies or unicorns or talking spaghetti. She whines and whimpers most nights, calling out in fear and moaning in pain.
I’m not much better. My shoulder is ruined and will require surgery, but the swelling needs to come down first. My knees are doing an ice pack rotation, and my finger is in a splint.
Between us, we have two black eyes, a litany of diagnoses, a small pharmacy, and can barely walk.
I trail my fingers down her arm until hers capture mine. “Need anything, baby?”
“My bones to be where they belong and to not wheeze when I breathe. Can you do that?” Her head turns to mine.
“I can do a lot of things, but neither of those are in my arsenal.”
“You saved me.” Her eyes are open and honest. She’s said this more than once each day since.
“Of course I did.”
Instinctively, she tries to roll but stops quickly on a groan. “Three days. It’s been three days. How can it hurt just as much at three days?”
“Your mom said the same, and that was before her procedure.”
Her mom came through with flying colors. Lorien called to check, not mentioning her own foray into broken bones and pain management.
“But they could set hers. And do a nerve block.”
“I wish I could have saved you from all of it. I’m sorry I was too late. And I’m sorry you thought, even for a minute, that you killed Barnett. But I’ll say it again, I’m proud as fuck for how you handled yourself.” I squeeze her hand and bring it to my lips to kiss her knuckles.
We’ve had more heart-to-hearts in the last seventy-two hours than I thought possible. My wife is smart, funny, brave, and her brain is wild in how it connects thoughts and ideas. She’s also clinical in how she thinks about the situation, when she can keep emotion out of it.
