“The medication is working.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“How long have I been here?” I ask instead.
He looks worn out.
There are dark circles beneath his eyes, his beard is longer than usual and his hair looks as if he has run his hands through it a hundred times.
He’s clean, so I assume he’s been showering somewhere, but everything about him appears slightly dishevelled… unkempt.
Which, for Hunter Wardgrave, is almost alarming.
The man is usually immaculate.
Every hair in place, every item of clothing perfectly tailored.
“A few days.”
“How much is a few?”
“Just over two weeks.”
I stare at him, my mouth open. “Really?”
He grunts.
“How... what happened?”
His jaw tightens. “He hurt you.”
“I know that, but how do you—”
“I came back for you after I realised I’d fucked up.”
The words are rough.
“I realised I’d made a mistake leaving you with him. I was too angry in the heat of the moment, and by the time I came back for you, it was already too fucking late.”
His fingers tighten around mine.
For the briefest second, I could swear his eyes are glistening. But that has to be the lingering haze from the medication.
Because Hunter Wardgrave crying?
Impossible.
I attempt to push myself further upright.
The pain that explodes through my ribs immediately puts an end to that idea.
“Don’t.”
He’s beside me in an instant, one hand finds my shoulder.
“You have several broken ribs.”
I blink at him.
