“If you say this is the best way to give me a wedding gift—a gift anyone could see you’re dying to give—then yes, Liam. You have my trust. Unequivocally.”
He blinks. Then? Sheer relief washes over him, softening the hard lines of his face.
“But…” I lift my finger and tap his nose. “I will still consult with the doctor first to determine the best possible method.”
Liam sighs, a long, shaky exhale which makes his whole body relax. He squeezes my hand. “Aye. Of course, Darlin’. Whatever you need.”
“How long are we talking about?”
His chest expands, and he holds his breath. “Nine hours.”
My brows lift, and I feel a little dazed.
My brain scrambles through some scenarios. A grand celebration for our wedding? A trip somewhere special? Ugh, no, I banish all thoughts, determined it will be as much of a surprise as possible.
But I still can’t ignore everything. “So, if I suspect what I believe will be necessary, and what I assume the doctor has also shared, he will be present as well as medical personnel.”
“Aye, Mrs. Donovan. Full team on standby. Medical transport. Monitors. The full works.”
I nod, chewing on my lower lip. That’s a long time to go under. But looking at him—really seeing the man who would burn the world down just to see me smile—I know I’m safe.
I fold my hand into his, my fingers finding the gold of the Claddagh wedding ring he placed there.
“When does the nine hours begin?”
CHAPTER 30
Liam
Idon’t move.
Her head is in my lap, one hand curled loosely against my thigh like she fell asleep mid-thought. The soft crease between her brows makes it seem like she’s solving a problem.
Or planning a crime.
A thin line of drool glistens at the corner of her mouth.
Christ, I love this woman.
I smooth my fingers through her hair, careful not to wake her too fast. The doctor said she’d start surfacing soon. She’d signed the full waiver, granting me complete authority for any medical choices for the next twelve hours, but not before she’d grilled Dr. Halvorsen for forty minutes.
That was my Lexie. Even when she was preparing to go under, she was a force of nature. She’d reviewed the dosing plan, asked about airway management, and shook the hands of the medical team as if she were inspecting a royal guard. She spoke to them as a woman with a powerful husband, unafraid to ensure her own safety.
Her faith in me should have been terrifying. Instead, it ached. To have the trust of a woman who knows exactly what I’mcapable of—who’s seen the blood on my hands—is a gift I’ll never deserve. But I’ll spend every second of the next fifty years trying.
We’d kept it simple for the flight. A controlled twilight sedation in the cabin of the jet, enough to keep her under but light enough to maintain spontaneous breathing. Quick reversal, easy wake-up. I’d watched her the whole eight hours across the Atlantic, mesmerized by how she drew every soul on that plane toward her, even while asleep.
I timed it as precisely as I could without losing my mind. Eight hours in the air. A helicopter transfer. A convoy waiting.
And she has no idea.
Her lashes flutter.
My heart stops.
Outside the tinted limousine windows, the English countryside rolls past in soft green waves. Mist clings to the fields. Stone fences. Ancient trees. The long drive is coming up, and gravel crunches under the heavy tires.
A small sigh eases from her nose.
