Stolen Love (Beauty in the Stolen 3)

“Cas.” Saying it out loud is like a knife twisting in my gut. “Cassandra.”

“Will you call us the minute there’s news?” she asks.

“We’ll have it first,” Damian says drily.

Of course he will. The doctor is on his payroll.

She gives me a compassionate look. “Whatever the case, we’re here for you.”

“Come,” Damian says, circling a possessive arm around her waist. “Let’s give Ian some time to rest.”

“Later,” she says with a wave as they walk to the double doors.

The doors shut with a click behind them.

Silence descends.

I walk to the floor to ceiling window and stare outside. Yellow lights illuminate the mine dumps in the distance. The skeleton of the highway cuts through the city and snakes toward the east. White Christmas lights decorate the streets below. It’s close to midnight, but there’s still traffic. Even if I can’t hear it from behind the double-pane glass, there’s always noise. I’ve run so hard from this city only to run straight back. Full circle.

Gripping the windowsill, I hang my head. There’s no place on Earth I wouldn’t go for Cas. Her wound isn’t fatal, but her heart condition is.

She’s a fighter.

She’ll pull through.

I have to believe it.

Chapter 6

Cas

I wake up thirsty. Swallowing away the scratchiness in my throat, I blink for my eyes to focus. I’m lying in a hospital bed in a large room. It looks like an office. A desk, filing cabinet, and other furniture are pushed to one side. Summer sunlight pours through the big frames of the windows, but it’s cool inside. The room is high up. Skyscrapers and mine dumps stretch out below. I must be in Johannesburg.

An IV is connected to my arm, and a monitor beeps next to me.

Slowly, it all comes back—the bar, Wolfe, getting shot.

Ian.

I turn my face. He’s sitting in a chair next to the bed with his elbows resting on his knees. A few days’ worth of stubble darkens his jaw. His hair falls over half of his face, obscuring his expression, but the intensity of his gaze and the questions drifting between us are palpable. I don’t need to see him to know what’s going on inside his head. We’re still connected in that way. Sadly, so. I was hoping for a clean break when I kill him. I was hoping to finally set myself free from the web in which he’d caught me.

I’m dressed in a hospital gown. He’s dressed in a white shirt and dark slacks. His clothes are wrinkled. Scanning the space, I finish my visual inspection. A blanket lies on a sofa on the other side of the room, which explains the state of his clothes. He must’ve slept there.

I try to swallow again, but it feels as if my tongue is stuck to my palate.

“Thirsty?” he asks in a gravelly voice.

I nod.

He folds his strong fingers around a plastic cup with a straw that stands on a side table next to the bed and brings it to my lips.

I take a few sips. Water. It hurts to swallow, but the cool liquid brings relief. “Where am I?”

He puts the cup back on the table. “Johannesburg.”

“I gathered.” I clear my throat to get rid of the croakiness. “Where in Johannesburg?”

Neither his face nor his voice gives away any emotion when he says, “My brother’s office block.”

“Damian? I thought you didn’t have contact.”

His lips tilt in one corner. “Now we do.”

Pulling aside the neckline of the gown, I inspect my body. Gauze is taped over the hollow of my shoulder.

“Damian arranged for a doctor,” he says. “The surgeon stitched you up. No major arteries were damaged, but you needed a transfusion.”

“Why?”

He arches a brow. “Why what?”

“Why did you bring me here?” I wring my hands on top of the blanket. “Why help me?”

He stares at me for a moment before saying, “We need to talk, but you first have to eat.”

Surprisingly, I have an appetite.

“Lina sent some food,” he says, getting to his feet.

I follow his progress as he makes his way to a bar fridge in the corner. “Lina?”

“Damian’s wife.”

Apprehension tightens my stomach. “Are you sure we’re safe here?”

He flashes me a strained smile from over his shoulder. “It doesn’t get safer than this.”

I relax a little. I have no reason to trust him, but he wouldn’t put his own life at risk. “What time is it?”

“On the table,” he says with his head buried in the fridge.

My Rolex lies next to the cup together with my Nyaminyami necklace. No matter how much I hate him, I couldn’t part with those objects, not even after he ordered my killing. Heat creeps into my cheeks that he witnessed my weakness—my inability to cut him completely out of my life.

I reach for the watch. It’s noon. “What day is it?”

“Boxing Day.” He shuts the fridge and walks back to me with a plastic dish in one hand and a fork in the other. “You’ve only been out for a few hours.”