Page 16

I blink, trying to focus on her words, but none of it answers the question–the only question. The coil that’s been twisting tighter and tighter since I saw the blood bloom across his shirt unfurls. “Is he okay or not?” I hear my voice rising high in the sterile room. “Is he going to live or not?”

“I wish I had more information, Ms. Hexley⁠—”

“Maddox,” I snarl, rising from my chair. “My last name is Maddox.” Remy’s eyebrows lift, and Lavinia’s mouth falls open in surprise. “If you can’t answer if my husband is going to live or die, then leave and don’t come back until you can.”

The nurse chews on a response for a moment, but then spins on her heels and exits the room. Good, because I didn’t want to have to scratch her eyes out. I’m well aware of Remy and Lavinia watching me, but something inside of me has finally woken up. I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of speaking up for my husband–I want him here to speak for himself. Why do I have to be the voice of reason? Of strength?

The answer slams into me fast and hard: Because I’m the only one he has right now. Damon and Hunter have to take care of the frat. They have to find the Guardian and do everything they can to locate Stella and any other missing girls. But, me? My job is clear. I’m here for my husband.

That thought makes me look up at the others in the room. “You don’t have to babysit me,” I say, wiping the angry tears off my cheeks. “I won’t tell Damon.”

Lavinia looks over her shoulder at Remy. The smirk that is usually tugging at his mouth is gone, his eyes lacking their spark. I see her lift her chin, a silent conversation passing between them.

“All this green.” He waves his hands around the space, then declares, “I need some air.” Remy drops a kiss on her forehead and walks out of the room.

“Oh thank god,” Lavinia says, dropping into a chair. “His energy was about to send me through the roof.”

“Energy?” They’d barely spoken since they got here.

“Rem is like a fucking sponge. When emotions get too high or feelings get too… well, feeling, it’s like he absorbs it all and then I get wound up in it like I’m some kind of emotional regulator—which is not my job but…” she attempts a steadying breath. “I’m working on it.”

“But why green?” I ask, caught on the word. “What does that mean?”

“It’s just how his brain works. He equates colors with a feeling or energy.” She sighs. “Green is sickness.”

“Is it?” I ask, thinking it over. “I would think green would be something like rebirth or growth. Like plants or flowers…”

She studies me, then says, “Yeah, don’t ask me how his brain works. It’s on its own frequency sometimes.”

I take in this girl—this woman—with the soft-colored hair and red lipstick. Her black jeans have a rip in one knee and slashes up the thigh. She’s wearing a cropped hoodie, with the zipper lowered enough to reveal the intricate moth tattooed across her chest. It’s beautiful, but I can only imagine it was painful.

“He likes to mark you,” I say, dragging my eyes from the tattoo to her face.

“Yeah.” A small smile curves at her mouth. “Sometimes it’s permanent, other times just with a marker.” Her eyes skim over me. The scar on my chest isn’t visible, but I know she’s seen it before. “What about DK? Has he given you a piercing?”

I shift in my seat, the move sending a tremor through my body. Even the smallest movement is a constant reminder of Damon and his claims. Without revealing where, I just reply, “Yes.”

A sound in the hall draws our attention back to the door, and the nurse pops her head back in and announces, “They have completed the surgery on your husband, and he’s in recovery. The doctor will be here shortly to give you an update.”

She ducks out, well aware that she didn’t answer my real question, but I exhale anyway. I don’t think it’s in relief. There are still too many unknowns.

A moment later, Lavinia’s phone buzzes. She looks down and shoots off a quick reply, thumbs moving fast across the screen.

“Was that Remy?” I ask.

“Yeah.” She tucks the device back in her hoodie pocket.

“He doesn’t want to come back in here, does he?”

Lavinia pulls her knee up into the chair, arms wrapping around it. “I understand that you are committed to Maddox,” she says, “and I’m in no place to judge. I understand that women in Forsyth don’t always have…” she pauses, like she’s searching for the word, “... autonomy or the freedom to live their own lives. I truly and wholly understand this, but Timothy Maddox isn’t a good guy. I’ve experienced his cruelty, watched him play dangerous games. I’ve witnessed him try to chip away at the psyche of the man I love. He’s an egotistical sociopath that uses his power over others for his own gain–nothing you can say will convince me otherwise.”

It’s a bold accusation, one I don’t have the evidence to refute. I could get angry, but I’m not. I feel sorry for them. Sorry that they don’t know the Timothy that I do. That he hasn’t revealed himself to them the way he’s revealed himself to me.

When I do respond, I tell her, “He has regrets. About Remy and his mother, he’s admitted as much.”

“I’ll believe that when I hear it straight from the bastard’s mouth,” Remy appears in the doorway with two coffee cups in his hands. His tone is sarcastic, along with the smirk on his mouth. There’s a flicker in his green eyes, something deep-seated, and I have to wonder if it’s hurt lurking behind all that anger. “Assuming he gets the chance. Until then, I only have personal experience to go on.”

He hands Lavinia the two cups, and she takes a sip out of one and offers me the other. I take it just to keep my fingers warm.