Shattered Dynasty

“Fine,” I say on a huff.

He chuckles, and this time it’s a happy laugh. A sound I’m not used to hearing come from his lips. I really like it. It’s contagious. I stop the matching smile from spreading across my lips.

In his arms, he pulls me tight, but he’s careful not to hurt me. I’m having a hard time reconciling the two versions of Trent.

The one who treated me like a servant, forced me to write papers, and had me volunteer.

That Trent was nasty, cruel, belittling. Yet the one I see now . . . This is the same man who brushed an old lady’s hair and helped Henry find his son. He tied shoes, cleaned, and stayed with me in the hospital every day . . .

It’s hard to figure out who the real Trent is.

I don’t think he knows either. I think he’s lived in a dark world for too long, and he doesn’t remember what it’s like to grow in the sunlight anymore.

I want to show him the light. I want to remind him what he has to be grateful for.

My mind says that would be dangerous.

But my heart? It’s beating like a drummer, begging to see him shine.

If I let those walls down, if I stop protecting myself and it turns out I’m wrong . . .

If the gamble isn’t worth it, if Trent turns out not to be the man I think he is beneath all the practiced hatred?

He can use that against me.

All the things in my past before his father stepped into my life, he can use against me.

Trent’s driver must’ve called ahead to let the staff know we were arriving because as Trent walks up the sidewalk to the door, it swings open, and everyone in the house greets us.

Each one of them approaches us, trying to make sure I’m okay, but Trent doesn’t want to stop. Instead, he walks down the hall.

To his room.

“What are we doing in your room?” I ask when he swings the door open with me still in his arms.

“You’ll be staying in here for the time being.”

I take in the grandiose space for the first time. It’s oversized, dark, and neat. Just like I expected. It also only has one bed.

“And where will you be staying . . . ?” I trail off.

He steps into the room with me and shuts the door behind him with his foot. “I took the liberty of moving your stuff in here and placing my stuff in your room, temporarily.”

“Why would you do that?”

I think I need him to spell it out for me because I’m not computing. Is this really the same man who makes me mix custom cleaning solutions for him?

He swallows, adjusting me in his grip. “Because you need more space.”

“I don’t need this much space.”

He walks toward the bed. “If you decide you want to use a wheelchair while you heal, your room is not adequately shaped for it. Also, your shower doesn’t have room for a chair.”

“You are being ridiculous. I don’t need a chair, and I am not staying in your room.”

He looks like he wants to argue. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, but with obvious reluctance, he nods. He retraces his steps and carries me to the room I’ve been living in.

I breathe in the familiar space, but all I catch is Trent’s scent. It’s overwhelming how much he consumes every space he enters. He places me on the bed, taking special care to avoid putting pressure on my injuries. Then he turns and storms out of the room before I even have time to process that I pissed him off.

What in the world did I do?

I don’t see what the big deal is about me not sleeping in his bed, but I can’t deal with a thirty-something-year-old man having a tantrum. He may as well lie on the floor, kicking his feet. It’s obvious what this is. A tantrum.

At least he closed the door behind him because I need a minute by myself.

My ribs ache. My leg aches. Hell, my wrist even aches.

But I don’t like to ask for help.

So I lie on my bed, try to get comfortable, and close my eyes.

I don’t know what time it is when I finally flutter them back open, but I’m met with darkness despite the curtains pulled wide open. My cell phone sits on the other side of the bed. I scoot over to look at it, moving extra slowly thanks to the haggard state of my body.

It’s three in the morning.

Wow. I fell asleep for twelve hours.

I still don’t feel rested.

At the hospital, the nurses woke me up so often for tests and drugs and who-knows-what. Then they told me they wouldn’t discharge me until I proved I felt well-rested, which was downright impossible with how dead set they were on keeping me awake.