But I had plenty to be grateful for.
First, I was safe. One hit. That was it. And as much as my brain tortured me, replaying that moment on an endless loop, I knew it could have been so much worse. A man obsessive enough to track me down from hundreds of miles away was capable of violence I didn’t want to imagine. I’d gotten lucky.
Second, the injury itself. The blow landed differently than his last one. This wasn’t a black eye. Not fully at least. It was a shadow, really. And after working my magic with concealer and setting powder, you could barely notice it.
Which brought me to the third thing I was grateful for: no one had noticed.
Not the guards at check-in. Not a single person in this building had looked at my face on my way in and seen anything wrong.
But Knox Blackwood wasn’t a normal person.
That man had memorized every pore on my face. Every freckle, every expression, every micro-shift in my mood. He’d notice the thicker layer of concealer. Or worse, he’d study me close enough to see the mark beneath it.
Which was why I had a plan.
I would not leave this to chance.
I took a deep breath and pushed through the infirmary doors.
Naturally, Knox was already there. Crouched beside the blood pressure monitor, calibrating it with a small screwdriver and a level of concentration that seemed excessive for the task. His back was to me, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt, and for one blissful moment, I thought I might slip past unnoticed.
I angled my body toward the back room, keeping my injured cheek turned away. Ten steps. That’s all I needed. Ten steps, and I’d be safely hidden behind a door, surrounded by gauze and antiseptic and blissful, blissful solitude.
One step.
“Morning, Harper.”
Two.
“Morning. Busy day.”
Three. I kept moving, my sneakers silent against the linoleum.
Four.
Five.
“Harper.”
I pretended not to hear him.
Six.
“Harper.”
The screwdriver clattered against metal as he set it down.
Seven.
“You’re not even going to look at me?”
Something in his voice made my stomach flip. Not anger. Something worse.
Was that hurt?
I stopped walking, but didn’t turn around. “I really do have a lot of work to catch up on.”
Behind me, I heard him rise to his feet. The soft shuffle of prison-issued shoes against the floor.
