Wretched Love

I laughed.

Of course, it was a garbled, fractured sound, but it was a laugh nonetheless. Because inside that hospital shower was a red bottle.

Of four-in-one.

And that’s how I realized I would heal. Completely. Largely because of the man in the shower with me.

My room was covered in flowers. There were crystals too. For ‘healing energy,’ according to Macy. There was an essential oil diffuser. I was wearing silk pajamas thanks to Marilyn, Freya’s best friend, who had dropped off a huge basket of high-end skincare and nightwear. My nails were painted bright red. That was Freya. There was a large stack of paperbacks—most of which were steamy romances—and magazines from Caroline. Lord of the Rings was playing on a loop thanks to Macy. Swiss had muttered about it being ‘weird elf bullshit,’ but I’d woken from a nap or two with him watching the TV rapt, hand still in mine but eyes glued to the screen. I’d smiled and gone back to sleep.

Julian brought coffee and pastries every morning.

Every single member of the Sons of Templar had come in to wish me well, to glower in that angry, masculine way when seeing my injuries.

I’d never felt so overwhelmed, so cared about, so loved in my entire life. I’d never had so many people make an effort for me. Not one person, not one single person looked at me different—apart from the angry, masculine glares at my bruises—or gave any inclination that they were mad at me for my lies. Then again, it was hard to be mad at someone in a hospital bed. But no one treated me differently. Like I was some weak woman to be pitied. Not even a little.

I’d finally spoken to Violet, a quick phone call to prove the ‘bronchitis’ I’d said I had as an excuse for not being able to speak on the phone. She’d sounded appropriately concerned and had even offered to fly home early to ‘take care of me.’ I’d quickly squashed that idea, filling with panic at the mere thought of my daughter seeing me like this.

Although I was desperate to see her. To touch her. Smell her. Even more so after what Swiss had told me about his daughter. It was something that hung between us now. Not keeping us apart but gluing us together even tighter. He’d shared a piece that he’d been holding back. That explained many things about who he was.

There was more I needed to say to him. A lot more. But we hadn’t had a chance to say all of those kinds of things. Not just because of the constant stream of visitors, but because I could only manage a handful of sentences at a time. And doctors had warned against me trying to push myself, saying I could cause permanent damage to my vocal cords if I did.

Swiss’s fist, the one not holding my hand, had been clenched tightly on top of his thigh when he heard that. Fury danced in his eyes and rippled in the air around him.

He’d shielded me from that for the most part, kept it locked down inside of him. But it was so all encompassing, some of it finally slipped out. And I saw the other side to his concern, to his turmoil. The need for revenge. It was a living thing inside of him.

Though we hadn’t said a word about Preston, except that moment in the bathroom, I had a feeling that he was still alive.

Swiss had been with me since they found me. Which meant that someone else had gone after Preston. And I knew for a fact that someone had gone after him. No way in hell would Swiss have let him make it back to Carver Springs after what he did. No way anyone in the club would’ve let that happen. And although I wasn’t hip to the inner workings of the club, I was willing to bet a lot on the fact that they wouldn’t have handed him to the police.

The police who had taken my ‘statement,’ which Swiss had given for me since I couldn’t speak. The slightly overweight sheriff in his mid-fifties had taken the statement, not blinking at the fact that Swiss was doing it for me.

According to Swiss, I’d been attacked by someone wearing a mask and could not remember anything about it.

The sheriff had nodded once, saying he’d be on the ‘lookout’ then wished me a speedy recovery.

There was some kind of understanding there that I didn’t have the energy to ask about.

So they had Preston somewhere. Keeping him alive until Swiss was comfortable enough to leave my side, presumably to kill him.

As unbelievable as it was, I didn’t have the energy to ask about that either. Or even think about. Not yet, at least. I was going to be discharged in a couple of days, thankfully. The hospital room was becoming suffocating. The nurses, the sounds, the smells... All of it was too much. Swiss and everyone connected to the club were the only things keeping me sane.

It was just the two of us now. Freya, Hades and Eva had just left. Hades and Swiss had had a man-huddle in the corner of the room while Freya sat Eva on my bed, talking about the ‘coming home’ party they were planning for me in the next few days.

Home.

She’d said it as if it were a foregone conclusion. As if I hadn’t lied about a thing. As if there was nowhere else for me to go.

And there was nowhere else for me to go. Not now. Not ever. Although I was sure there was a lot to deal with in Carver Springs, especially if Preston was to be killed.

But that was all pushed to the back of my mind. There was something much more pressing. Someone. The someone whose hand had barely left mine since I woke up. Whose hand had been in mine practically the entire time I’d been unconscious. The someone who looked absolutely tortured. Wretched over this.

And I couldn’t stand it anymore.

There was something playing on the TV. We were both only pretending to watch it. Swiss wasn’t able to keep his eyes off me for an extended period of time. They kept darting back to me, as if making sure I was still there. Still alive.

I caught them the next time they made their way in my direction, my hand tightening around his in signal that I had something to say.

Swiss sat up a little straighter in his chair and moved slightly so his body was facing me. He leaned closer, knowing that I wasn’t strong enough to project my voice.