Page 35 of Blind Devotion
There was little hope she’d see again from her right eye, perforated as it had been and with the infection the doctors found. Even after emergency open globe surgery three weeks ago, the ophthalmologist’s prognosis was grim. For the chemical burns to her left eye, the success of the amniotic membrane graft for her vision still needed to be assessed, but the doctor gave me optimistic daily reports on her long-term recovery. I tugged the binding back into place.
“Do me a favor?” she asked breathily.
I blinked slowly. This woman was insane. “Favors are not free.”
“All I ask…” She sucked in air with a wince. “Make it quick, big guy.”
She grimaced with each gulp of air, her hands still clutching her side.
“That…I should have the doctors check your head again.”
She whimpered a laugh. “Sorry I’m not dying the way you think I should. I’ll try to do better next time.”
I stepped back, not sure how to proceed. Her lips were curled up, caught in a joke I neither understood nor wished to. I left theroom, muscles tense and thoroughly confused. But worse than all that, I wasn’t certain I had really applied as much pressure as was needed to completely cut off her air supply.
The next night, I came in around three in the morning, the devil’s hour. Fitting, I was there to cause her destruction. I’d had a hell of a day between a port issue with the Turks, a banking deal with the Germans, and disciplining the latest street gang in Marseille, in a long string of them, that thought my rules were merely suggestions. Now I had to deal with my in-house problem.
Compared to everything else, this was the moment I looked forward to all day. It wasn’t because of her. No, it was the kill I was after.
From within my suit pocket, I pulled out a capped syringe. Margaux supplied the heavy dose of clonazepam earlier today, fully aware of what was planned. Despite not overly arguing Tessa’s case, she adamantly refused to administer it herself. Doctor’s oath and all that bullshit.
Moonlight shone through the window facing her bed. A sliver of silver glowed over her skin, darkened by the leftover tinges of old bruises smeared over her chin to the neckline of her gown that dipped quite low. So low, the swell of one breast peeked out while compressing the other. Pert nipples puckered against the thin gown, just enough for a teasing preview.
Her breathing was even. Her thin neck stretched with graceful lines, skin smooth except for that tiny cut where my knife rested two nights ago. Her face was twisted to the side, features relaxed. Trusting and carefree, that was how she looked despite her healing wounds. Completely at odds with what she once must have suffered at the hands of Bogdani.
I hated her for it. I was conflicted, damn it. I now knew how she talked, how she quipped, how strong she was, not only for surviving him but also for how she survived me. Worst of all, I knew how good she felt in my arms. She wasn’t a faceless target, not anymore.
I pried up her IV line and slipped the needle into the injection port. All I needed to do was press down on the plunger for the medication to mix with the opioids in her system and send her slowly into cardiac arrest. Quick, painless, just what she asked for. I cracked my neck from side to side as my thumb shook against the plunger.What are you waiting for? Do it. Do it the fuck now!
“No pillow this time?” she asked in French.
I ignored how my shoulders loosened at the sound of her voice broken by sleep. I didn’t even question my sanity as I tugged out the still-full syringe. The tube jerked.
“Ah, injecting me with poison?” she croaked, her accent all the more marked in her sleep-broken speech.
I still hadn’t pinpointed where it was from with the way her vowels pitched at times and elongated at others as though mixing different accents. Her English was a dead ringer for West Coast American, but her French didn’t have any of its normal twang.
She groaned as she turned to face me, a defiant twist to her mouth. I found myself wishing I could see if that look extended to her eyes.
“Drugs,” I corrected.
“Potato potahto.” And just like that, we were back to English. “Would it have been quick?”
“You wouldn’t have felt a thing.”
“Aww.” She nuzzled the pillow and yawned. “I might think you cared.”
“Would you rather I make you feel it?”
She sighed. “I’d rather you not do it at all, but I can’t fight you. Not like this. Stuck in this bed, barely able to walk to and from the bathroom without wanting to collapse. I might not remember who I am, but I’m not an idiot. If you really want to, you’ll find a way. So go on, get on with it.”
I snorted at her audacity.
“I’ll even pretend I’m sleeping if it helps.”
“Were you hit on the head as a child?”
“Head injury, hello.” She pointed to her head. I shook mine at a loss.
