Page 154 of Captive Audience
If I so much as winced, he was at the door checking on me a moment later. I was pretty certain he’d installed a camera somewhere in the room. When I’d questioned him about it, he’d shrugged and muttered something aboutprecautionary measures.
Secretly, I loved that he was up to his old tricks. I didn’t even care how messed up that made me.
When the doctor had said I could ease back into regular food, I’d asked Rook for a croissant for breakfast. He’d had a fresh box delivered the next morning.
From Paris.
But while Rook was ever present, he also…wasn’t.
Our conversations never strayed from safe topics. I was sick ofbeing asked my pain level and if I was tired, hungry, or hydrated.
When he hadn’t been seeing to my medical needs, he’d installed shelves in his study, rearranged everything in the kitchen cabinets, and spent far too much time cleaning weapons in his armory. It didn’t take a genius to figure out he was avoiding me.
I wanted the old Rook back.
My gangster. My husband.
Even though he kept our relationship strictly on patient-caregiver terms, he couldn’t hide how he stared at my lips, the way his touch lingered when he helped me bathe, or the longing in his eyes each time he left my room.
And every night, when he thought I was asleep, he’d sit beside my bed and whisper in Gaelic. I didn’t know what he was saying, but his words seemed heartfelt.
Like he was reciting a prayer.
Or making an unbreakable oath.
Rook’s guilt over my injuries was like a third person in our relationship. I still felt that if I forced him to speak about it, he’d only retreat into his despair. Or worse: He’d tell me we were through. I wasn’t ready to hear those words, so any real talk about our future remained on hold. I just hoped that with time and my recovery, Rook’s burden would lessen and we could move past this.
Because in the back of my mind, I couldn’t stop thinking that my obligation to Rook had ended. The Soul Collector was dead. According to the terms of our deal, I was free to leave and the marriage was over.
I didn’t want either of those things.
A knock at the doorframe pulled me from my thoughts.
I glanced up, and my heart clenched.
Finn sat in a wheelchair, his whole leg enclosed in a brace. He had a nasty scratch on his jaw and dark circles beneath his eyes, and he hadn’t bothered shaving.
“Wow.” I set my phone aside and managed a weak grin. “And here I was thinking I looked like crap.”
The corner of his mouth twitched but didn’t quitemake it to a smile.
“You shouldn’t joke. Not after what happened.” His voice was flat, my upbeat bodyguard nowhere to be found. “Can I come in?”
“Of course.” I waved him forward. “Can I get you anything? Water? Cheez-Its? I have some half-decent painkillers somewhere.”
“No thanks.” He wheeled closer and stopped beside my bed.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
He arched a brow. “You are?”
“I wanted to visit you in the hospital to see how you were doing and to apologize for everything. Finn, I’m so sorry?—”
“What the bloody hell are you apologizing for? I’m the one who should be begging forgiveness. I was supposed to protect you, but I fucked up.” His gaze flicked to the stitches on my cheeks before his face twisted and his hands clenched into fists. “Those brutal Bratva bastards. I heard what they did to you. It makes me sick.”
“Finn.”
He frowned, muttering curses under his breath about the bastards he’d been robbed of the chance to ruin.
