14
LIAM
Dr. Baker is more familiar with my body than any woman has ever been. This is the first time he’s worked on me in front of an audience.
He gives me one of his meaningful looks while he’s packing up his things, and I’m trying to adjust to the sensation of stitches and medical tape tugging at my skin. “As usual, let me know at the first sign of infection. Have your wife keep an eye on it,” he suggests.
I don’t love the suggestiveness in his tone of voice. Like we both know she’s not a regular wife, and he’s smart enough not to come straight out and say it, but he still can’t leave without making a comment. He knows I’m not a regular person—obviously, since he doesn’t treat regular people, not anymore, not since he had his license taken away. That makes him perfect for me. It’s how we met in the first place, in fact, with him taking on the kinds of patients who can’t just walk into a hospital and be treated. When you do that, they ask questions. They want names. They might bring the police in depending on how badly you were fucked up.
When I stand, the tugging sensation makes me grit my teeth. It’s always like this, just after being wounded. “I’ll be fine.”
Aurora is in the bedroom, the door open after the doctor ordered her to lie down with her feet elevated to keep her knees from swelling too much. He doesn’t think she’s concussed, either. Just shaken up.
She has to be, though she’s handled it well. Almost too well. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop as I walk the doctor to the elevator. She was shot at during her father’s funeral. Who wouldn’t be on the verge of a breakdown after something like that? I wish she would scream and cry and beg for answers. That, I could handle. It’s this unnerving quiet from her that I can’t get a grip on.
The elevator doors open, but before the doctor steps on, he gives me an appraising look. “She’s a tough customer, that one. Surprisingly stoic. Then again,” he adds, entering the car, “I guess she would have to be, marrying you.”
I let him think that this is going to be that kind of marriage. A partnership and not a plot.
I’m damn sore, walking through a silent penthouse. After all the excitement earlier, the quiet is unnerving. It gnaws at the back of my mind, reminding me of a grave. A grave that right now holds the body of someone who is not Donovan Blackwell.
She could’ve died today. And all because I wanted to draw him out. I figured he would show up just to prove I didn’t beat him. I wanted him to see my firm grip on the daughter he guarded almost jealously throughout her life. His most prized possession. His greatest tool.
And I used her the way he did. I used her, and she could’ve died like the pawn she’s always been.
Now is a bad time for me to grow a conscience, but that doesn’t stop my heart from feeling strangely heavy as I move slowly through the kitchen, setting things back the way theywere. I have a thing for order, neatness. A therapist would probably tell me it has to do with the disorder my life fell into out of nowhere, in the literal blink of an eye. My attempt at maintaining control wherever I can. Not that I’ve ever seen a therapist. Mostly because I know that’s the kind of bullshit they would hand me.
In the end, I’m stalling for time. Eventually, I have to look Aurora in the eye, and I’m putting it off as long as I can because I fucked up today. If that bullet hadn’t gone into me, it would have lodged itself in her, and she might not have been so lucky. Not that I feel particularly lucky right now.
Finally, there’s nothing to do but check on her, if only because I’d like to get out of my ruined suit pants and into something less bloodstained. She already got changed out of her funeral black and is now wearing a pair of loose yoga pants and a sweater. Her eyes are closed, but I doubt she’s sleeping. “Did you take anything for the pain?” I ask from the doorway before entering and heading for the closet.
She pries open one eyelid and looks at me as I pass, like she can’t understand why I asked. That would make two of us. “Just a couple of ibuprofen, like the doctor said.”
“Good.” No one ever accused me of having a decent bedside manner. “I’m…”
Now both of her eyes are open, pinned on me. They’re flat, empty. It’s pretty damn unnerving, having no clue what’s behind them or what she’s thinking while she watches my every move. Is she preparing to explode? I hope she does. Anything would be better than crushing silence.
“I’m glad you’re all right,” I conclude once I’m in sweats, which I hardly ever wear. I’ll make an exception today. “Things could have been much worse.”
Dammit, she keeps staring at me. Like she can see through to the guilt I’m in no mood for. How was I supposed to know someone would open fire?
I should have known, or at least suspected. I put her in unnecessary danger—it wasn’t even Donovan’s funeral, for fuck’s sake. I can’t let hatred and my thirst for vengeance cloud my judgment anymore. I’ve been so careful up to this point and even then, not careful enough, since the son of a bitch managed to survive.
“I want to rest.” She closes her eyes again, hands folded on her stomach. I’ve been dismissed. It’s just as well. I have no idea what to say.
I settle for retreating to my office, where I give the team a rundown on what happened over the phone. “Any intel you can dig up on who might’ve been behind it?” I ask Nick in conclusion.
He heaves a sigh, which tells me whatever he’s about to say won’t be good. “I think there’s a possibility we need to look at first and foremost.” First, he takes a pause, then mutters, “It might’ve been him.”
All he did was voice the idea that’s lived in the back of my head ever since we got home. White-knuckling my way through being probed and stitched, I distracted myself by wondering whether Donovan would go that far. Would he aim so close to his own daughter? If so, why?
There’s only one explanation that comes close to making sense. I can’t afford to dismiss it, because it would mean dismissing him. I need to remember he’s capable of anything. Collateral damage means shit to him, so long as he gets what he wants.
I have to wonder whether he wanted to see if I would protect her. If I didn’t? Well, what would he lose? Clearly, he was willing to take that risk. He has to pretend to be dead, anyway, so Idoubt he was looking forward to a cheerful, loving reunion. By now, his sights are entirely on me. Sizing me up, finding out where my weaknesses are and how he can exploit them.
Is she a weakness? Considering I can’t stop thinking about her and blaming myself for what could’ve happened, I’m starting to believe it’s possible. “Find out whatever you can,” I conclude.
After I’m off the phone, I stare blankly at nothing, going back over every step of my plan, hoping to figure out where I fucked up.
