Page 71 of Wicked Ruin

“Think of anyone who might have a grievance?” Cavin says.

Something moves at the back of my mind. Torin's warning. Someone already here.

I shake my head. “I had Ashland's back when he went after Crowning. Maybe that. Maybe something else.”

Cavin nods slowly. “Someone find you out in Boston?”

I shake my head. “Don’t know.”

“We'll find out who it was.”

The bitch of it all is—I can't get married to Valentina fast enough. We need what they can give us. I try to convince myself it’s true.

The door opens, and there she is—in yesterday's clothes, red eyes, with the particular look of someone who has been holding themselves together by pure stubbornness for hours. Bridget stares. I give her a smile and open my one good arm for her to come to. Fuck it all if Cavin’s here or not. She’s still my friend, isn’t she?

She crosses the room and sits on the edge of the mattress, putting her face down against the blanket near my hand, like she just needs a moment when she doesn't have to hold anything up.

“Declan. You’re awake.”

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Cavin says, rising, then his voice lowers. “Careful, brother.”

I nod, and he leaves.

“I was so scared,” she says, her voice muffled. I bring my good hand up and run it slowly through her hair.

“I'm alright. I'm too mean to let a gunshot wound keep me down.”

She lifts her head. Her eyes are red and swollen, and she looks utterly done in, yet she's the best thing I've ever seen. “Well, thank god for the guards coming out when they did.”

“Aye. First time in my life I’m glad someone didn’t listen to me. Bollocks. The most important thing is that you're alright.”

“I'm fine,” she says, but she clearly isn't, not even close. “But you—you were fucking bleeding like a stuck pig. What the fuck does that expression even mean?”

She shakes her head, a breath of a laugh escaping.

“Something about slaughtering pigs, I guess. That's a fucking horrible thing to say to an injured man.”

“Well, appropriate.” She frowns. “Not sure what Cavin makes of all this. I didn't do anything inappropriate—you were unconscious.”

“Cavin’s fine,” I say with an eye roll.

She's giggling a little now, shaking her head. “I know a couple of the nurses on this floor, from when I was here. They let me spend the night. I was falling asleep in the chair, so they gave me one of those.” She nods toward the recliner. “Folds out. Your mam came by while you were still under. Wanted to see you. Your da was here but had to go. He’ll be back again.”

“Right,” I say, nodding, my eyes heavy again.

She stands and begins adjusting the recliner, refolding the blanket with the efficient movements of a woman who grew up knowing hospital routines by heart. A nurse appears in the doorway.

“Oh, you’re awake. Let’s get you sorted. And Bridget, the doctor’s here to see you.”

“Right, yes, I'll be right out.” She looks strangely flustered. She never gets flustered. “I decided, since I was already here, I might as well follow up. I heard back from Rosenberg, and he has a colleague on staff. I can—I'll just—” She's already moving toward the door. “Be right back.”

Good, I want her to follow up. But when I watch her go, I feel as if something is off. Bridget is an open book—she always has been—all flashing eyes and quick tongue, nothing hidden for long. But just now, she looked like a woman who didn't want me asking questions.

The fuck is that all about?

Slowly, my head throbbing against the bright light, I turn back to my phone and begin working through the messages. But I keep thinking about the way she wouldn't quite meet my eyes. My girl has never been difficult to read… until now.

As I’m trying to get to my feet, Bridget comes back into the room. “Declan. You were meant to stay seated. The doctor said no strenuous exercise.”