“I came to tell you I love you.” I rub the top of his hand. “And of course, I’m here. Where else would I be? The queen’s the most powerful player on the board—always in service to her king.”
His hand tightens around mine, and he chokes up blood. He’s barely breathing, and I pray that both lungs aren’t damaged. If they are, he won’t be alive when they get here. “Stay with me, Gray.”
Somehow I manage to keep the worst of the alarm out of my voice. “Don’t you dare go anywhere. Not before I get that ring you promised.” I hear Smith’s team in the building. “And the damn thing better be big enough to choke a chicken—screw that, a horse.”
Smith barges in with the EMTs right behind him. A sob escapes that I can’t stop.
Reluctantly, I let go of Gray’s hand and back away slowly from the table so they can work. I make a call, my eyes never leaving Gray’s face. “It’s done. Sinclair Industries is cleaning up.”
“Gray?” Foxy asks.
“Bad shape. But he’s fighting. The EMTs are working on him.”
“I’ve known him since he was wet behind the ears,” she says with considerable distress. “I would have never done what you suggested.”
“We don’t always get to choose our orders.”
“No. But we always get to choose whether we follow them.”
She’s loyal to Gray—to the bone. No one likes their loyalty questioned, and I feel a pang of regret. “I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“One more thing,” Foxy says in a stern tone. “Those grandchildren are real and entirely off-limits.”
“Understood,” I agree mindlessly, my entire focus on Gray.
I end the call with Smith beside me. “I told you not to go in,” he scolds. “That was a stupid, stupid thing to do.”
“As stupid as handing a delirious woman your weapon?” That’s exactly what he did when Kate was in trouble. “I don’t think so,” I toss over my shoulder, blowing past him to get closer to Gray.
They’re positioning him onto a stability board to get him on the stretcher. “Can we get a hand here?” one of the EMTs hollers.
Smith and I are there before all the words are out of his mouth.
The transfer is difficult. Gray isn’t conscious, but I feel every bump, every bounce, every anguished move, as a stab of pain I’m experiencing myself.
“Is he going to survive?” I whisper to the medic once Gray is on the stretcher safely.
“He’s young,” the dark-haired emergency technician says briskly. “That’s in his favor.”
“Caucasian male, thirty-four, unconscious. Blood type unknown.” The younger EMT lists Gray’s vital signs and other pertinent information into a walkie-talkie on our way to the ambulance. “Multiple contusions, several broken ribs. A gunshot to the shoulder. High suspicion of internal bleeding, and a pneumothorax on the left side. We bagged him.”
“We’ll prep the surgical trauma room,” a woman says calmly from the other end.
“We’re on our way.”
I clasp Gray’s cool hand until he’s lifted into the ambulance. A reel plays in my head. Motorcycle rides. Sitting in his lap with my eyes closed and a breeze blowing lightly. Gray teasing about the smell of catfish. The distress consuming him when he told me about his mother’s death. Supper at the beach house under millions of stars. I love you, Blue Eyes. Pack it away and take it with you.
My brain is sluggish and my emotions are tangled, but my eyes are sharp, trained entirely on Gray. They don’t stray until the ambulance door closes, and it speeds away.
I hug myself tight as the lights cut through the darkness and disappear. But it’s not until the wails of the siren grow faint that I give myself grace and let the tears fall freely.
It can’t end this way. It just can’t.
48
Gray
TWELVE WEEKS LATER
A punctured lung, a shattered shoulder, a dozen broken ribs, an orbital fracture, a concussion, and countless contusions. It was ugly. But I survived.
Early on, there were days when I longed for the peace death surely provides. But through the surgeries, the intubation, and the initial rehab, the bossy blonde—emphasis on bossy—was having none of it. And every time I opened my eyes and she was by my side, like an angel, I wanted none of it either. I needed to live—if not for me, for her.
The initial four weeks were particularly rough. I couldn’t do a thing for myself. Nothing. When I was finally discharged from the hospital, we hired a live-in nurse. Delilah squawked a bit. She wanted to take care of me herself. But there was no fucking way I was letting that happen. My body might be broken, but my mind was sharp. Our relationship was too new, too fragile to take away all the mystery. And I had too much pride to subject either of us to the most unpleasant matters.
There were two major breakthroughs during my recovery that propelled me forward.
At the end of the first month, Delilah rushed into the bedroom where I was resting after a particularly rough rehab session. She was pale, and shaken. “You’re never going to believe this,” she said, placing my laptop where I could see the screen.
Crown Prince Ahmad bin Khalid Dead in a Fiery Helicopter Crash in big bold letters splashed across the screen.
Ahmad’s death didn’t shock me as much as it shocked Delilah. Political coups are messy, and I was still numb from a near-death experience. “I guess the crown prince didn’t want to go away quietly.”
“What does this mean?” she asked, her face ashen and her voice laden with concern. “I’m glad he’s dead. But what does it mean for us?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. The king was going to remove him as heir to the throne. Ahmad would have had no qualms about killing his brother if it was necessary to consolidate his power. I doubt the king was willing to risk it. It has nothing to do with you or me.”
The worry eased from her face, and I was happy to provide some small measure of comfort, because I’d been a worthless fuck since the attack.
After Delilah left the room, I stared at the screen that day, and the next. I consumed every word of every news article about his death. Devoured every broadcast. I ordered a half dozen newspapers with the headline of his demise.
I kept the newspaper clippings tucked into various places so I could look at them anytime it was hard to breathe or when the pain was particularly excruciating. It saw me through some of the rougher patches, driving me forward when I wanted to throw in the towel.
I won’t apologize for reveling in his death.
In a twisted way, it fueled my recovery. But while it buoyed me, it didn’t fully restore my spirit. That took a force of nature, beautifully packaged.
As the weeks drag on, I’ve become such a miserable wretch that even my brothers and Gabby stop visiting.
Mel still comes by three times a week. Not for me, but for Delilah. “Some people are worth the extra effort,” he told me one day. “You might want to take that to heart, son.”
I’m making physical progress, albeit slower than I would like, but my mind is one big clusterfuck of emotion. Anger, resentment, pity, shame—it’s a huge party, and I’m the guest of honor with nothing to do but lick my wounds. And although I don’t care who watches, Delilah has had a front row seat to the misery. She nudges and nags, but she never complains. In some ways, it makes it easier for me to descend into the darkness.