Of course the money stopped mattering a long time ago. I’ve never failed so badly in my life.
The doctor is through the bedroom door before I can stop him. When I go to follow, Hadrian lifts a hand.
“Let him go.” He gives the safe house a sweeping once over, his disdain clear.
I force myself to stay in the living room, fighting the urge to go to Isolde. She doesn’t like to be touched, let alone poked and prodded by some stranger. She’s slept the past two hours. Tyler not only gave her medicine, but he also mentioned shock and crashing from the adrenaline.
Everything in me wants to hover over her, acting as her patient advocate, while the doctor examines her.
Hadrian sits down on the couch, crossing his ankle andleaning back. His pale face is eerily blank, his suit immaculate, and his loafers worth more than the rent for this place.
“What happened?” he asks, his tone bored.
Not once does his face change as I go through the events, faithfully transcribing what Luis and Ian told me.
“Where were you?” he asks.
“A meeting in Soho.” I lean my elbows on my knees, sitting forward in my chair. The safe house is bare bones, but there are essentials in the pantry and a couch, armchair, and rug in the living room. “I was headed toward the bridal boutique when Luis called.”
“And you trust this Luis?”
I grit my teeth, swallowing. “He did everything right.”
Hadrian digests this information rather than providing judgment.
“We’ll need help with the private jet,” I admit.
Another little nod. “But not the body?”
“Taken care of.” He doesn’t question me, and I take it as an olive branch. We’re both in this together because, like it or not, we are a team when it comes to taking care of Isolde. “I’ll call my contacts and start putting together where the fuck Cade hired this guy.”
The mystery of a triggerman with a private jet is gnawing at me.
And Isolde willingly went with him, not putting up a fight. Something is severely fucked up.
The doctor slips out of Isolde’s room and nods at Hadrian. I take that to mean he’s found Tyler’s assessment of the patient to be okay, though he’s hooked her up to an IV.
Hadrian stands, buttoning his jacket. Without asking, he walks into Isolde’s room. This time I follow, not caring if I annoy the man.
But as it is, he says nothing. Maybe it’s seeing her hooked up to the IV, but I swear she looks worse.
I tense when Hadrian lifts a hand, the limb hovering. The prolonged pause takes me by surprise. Hadrian himself is like a sleek private jet, flying everywhere and anywhere he wants, with little concern for others. I watch him debate touching her before his hand moves as if he’s forcing it inch by inch.
It’s like watching a child learn how to do something. His palm lands on her forehead as if he means to push her hair back, but he can’t quite get the movements right.
I never took Hadrian for awkward, but that’s exactly what he is.
He stiffly bends down, kissing her forehead.
It should irritate me, but grandfatherly is the only word to describe the affection.
When we step out of the room, Hadrian turns toward me. “You need to speak to Dimitri Zimin.”
“What?”
The doctor is now at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper. Looks like he’s not leaving with Hadrian.
“Call Dimitri and tell him Isolde’s killed a Spider.”
