"No need. I just wanted to look at you." I met her eyes, keeping my tone steady.
She sat up abruptly, wiping at her face. "Liar. The doctor said the cut on your arm took twelve stitches. Once the anesthesia wears off, there's no way it doesn't hurt."
"Really," I leaned in close, my breath grazing her ear with a kind of reckless relief. "Everything still works just fine. You can test it if you don't believe me."
Ella's ears turned crimson. She shoved me away and scrambled to her feet.
"You asshole," she muttered, but the ice was gone from her voice.
I laughed. It might have been the first real laugh I'd had in two months.
Over the next two days, the Rochester Police Department worked itself into a frenzy. Within forty-eight hours, they'd rounded up every last one of those thugs, finding stolen goods at their hideout along with belongings from several missing women. The men confessed to over a dozen robberies and three sexual assaults.
Meanwhile, under my pressure, massive police resources swept through every block around the hospital. Abandoned factories, dark alleys, underground gambling dens—the scum lurking in the shadows, pimps and dealers, were crushed like insects and cleared out wholesale.
"You went overboard," my head of security said over the phone. "You've got the entire Rochester police force in motion. Even the mayor's office is calling, asking what's going on."
"I don't care," I said. "I want that area clean as Eden."
Since I couldn't get Ella back to Manhattan anytime soon, I had to make damn sure she was safe here. I wanted her to walk the streets without being followed. Without being watched. I didn't want her hurt again.
So in exchange for these stolen moments, I'd employed a few insignificant tactics.
I'd thrown my best private medical team at Maya's case, which made my own "care resources" look strangely sparse. Ella had her doubts, but my line about "limited hospital resources, Maya needs the specialists more" convinced her completely.
Which meant she had to focus most of her energy on me.
Every morning she showed up at eight sharp with oatmeal she'd made herself, loaded with bizarre ingredients from some recipe book—minced ginger, cinnamon, honey, ground flaxseed. She said it all helped with wound healing.
She'd press the back of her hand to my forehead to check my temperature, carefully tuck in the blanket corners, and meticulously inspect the medications on my bedside table. Once, she caught the nurse bringing the wrong antibiotic dosage and immediately tracked down the duty nurse to demand a replacement.
I just watched her bustle around for me. That focused expression on her face was meant only for me. The old Ella seemed to have come back.
To make this almost indulgent attention last, I started faking symptoms.
Ella fed me every meal, spoon by spoon. In the afternoon, when the light was best, she'd wheel me outside. We'd sit in the sun together like we were on vacation.
Originally, the day before she'd handed me those divorce papers, I'd planned to take her on a trip abroad. But now I understood—real travel wasn't about the destination. It was about who was beside you. As long as you were with the person you loved, every day felt like a holiday.
"Lucas," she said one morning, watching me sprawled in bed, suspicion creeping into her voice. "Yesterday, you said your right hand couldn't grip anything. How come today it's your left?"
"Dizzy," I said, eyes closed. "Blood loss probably scrambled my memory."
"The doctor said your blood work came back normal."
"Maybe it's a concussion."
"You never hit your head."
We stared at each other for several seconds. The sternness in her eyes gradually crumbled, the corner of her mouth twitching.
She was trying not to laugh.
"You're faking," she said with certainty.
"No."
"You're absolutely faking."
