Page 38 of The Queen's Denial

“Holy shit.” I hear his voice, and although it’s wheezy and slow, it definitely belongs to Andy. But if I had any doubt, his next words erase it all together. “Get your fucking hands off her before I cut them off.”

“You sure this is her, sir?” One of the men who brought me up here — the lesser-creep — has suddenly adopted a tone of utter respect.

“It’s her,” Andy says, and the man lets go of my arm.

“You know we’re going to have to do the same thing when she leaves. It’s just protocol.”

Andy growls, “Get the fuck out, man.”

I hear a sigh, and the door closes.

“Are you out of your mind, Chi? Take that fucking blindfold off and look at me.”

I notice my hands are shaking as I bring them up to my face to strip the blindfold off, but I still try for as flippant a tone as I can muster. “Okay, two psycho crazy people told me that if I took the blindfold off, I’d be thrown into a cellar with the decaying flesh. How was I supposed to know it was… oh my God.”

Andy is a fucking mess. There’s a huge laceration stretching from his eye to his neck with multiple stitches. His arm is in a cast, and it seems hard for him to even twist to look at me.

Andy notices the way I’m studying him and follows my eyes to survey the damage on his body, as if seeing it himself for the first time. I imagine, when he looks back up at me, that this is as close to embarrassed as I’ll ever see him, and it breaks my heart that he feels that way in front of me.

I do something I’ve never done for a man; I run over to his bedside and clasp his hand in mine, holding back tears, dropping my mask and showing every bit of concern for him on my face. I can’t cry though, or he’ll be even more self-conscious. “Andy. You’re going to need to tell me what happened,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

“No way. It’s not a big deal.”

“The copious amounts of casts and bandages all over your body beg to differ.”

He gives me a flat look and tries to stare me down. When it doesn’t work, he rolls his eyes away and shakes his head. “Did you forget that I’m furious with you for coming here, Chi? Do you know what kind of danger you’ve put yourself in today?”

I sit down and smooth my hands over my jeans, as if taking the wrinkles out, just like Daiki does when he’s slightly perturbed. I cross one leg over the other, trying to get comfortable, and clasp my hands together in my lap. Finally, I look at him head on and let out a cleansing breath. “You’re going to have to stop getting mad at a grown woman for the choices she makes for the good of everyone around her.”

He gives me another flat look. “So, I suppose you ran off to the bar and licked some asshole’s abs for the good of those around you.”

I feel my cheeks heat but don’t dial down my fiery gaze. “Maybe if I don’t let off some steam, I’m a pretty terrible person, and I don’t want to subject you all to that.”

He blinks hard at me before rolling his eyes again. “You’re fucking ridiculous, Chi. You really shouldn’t have come here.”

“Well, I did.” I look at him as sincerely as I can muster and squeeze his hand. “Would you please tell me what happened?”

He shrugs and then winces as a bandage tightens over his abdomen. “It’s not a big deal, Chi. I’ve always been good at breaking into shit. There was this safe-type thing filled with explosives and no one could get in. So, I did. And it saved a lot of our men’s lives. I just… also got blasted by a fucking explosion at the same time.”

I look at him in mock reprehension. “Well, that was your first mistake: trying to be a hero. You’re only my hero. Got it?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m no one’s hero, baby. I’m not exactly the guy you want on your side. I’m just also not the guy you want to go up against.”

A rogue curl has broken ranks and clings to Andy’s sweaty forehead. He probably needs more pain relief, even if he hates drugs and talks about his high pain tolerance. I can’t help myself; I smooth his hair out of his face. “Well, I’m an expert on heroes, as you know. And an antihero is still a hero, Andy,” I whisper.

I know he doesn’t mean to, and he would probably never allow himself to show me this without all the pain meds he’s currently hopped up on, but as my fingers graze his temple and tuck his hair behind his ear, his eyes flutter closed, and he leans into my touch for the briefest moment.

I don’t want him to even realize he’s done it, so I take a mental snapshot of the movement and continue on immediately. “What did the doctor have to patch up?”

He keeps his eyes closed for a moment and hisses out a frustrated sigh. “Some broken bones, but that’s nothing in comparison to the internal bleeding and punctured lung.”

Along with the memory of his raspy, dying voice on the other end of the phone just yesterday, these new details of Andy in excruciating pain, bleeding from the inside, barely able to breathe — breaks something inside of me. I take in a ragged breath, and my bottom lip trembles. Then I feel that dreaded prick behind my eyes again, and I can’t seem to swallow past the lump in my throat. This fucker has nearly made me cry twice in the span of ten minutes.

He sees my clear distress. “Fuck me, Chi. Please don’t cry. I’m not worth your tears.”

The sentiment causes my sorrow to hit even harder, and I feel a warm, salty droplet hit my cheek. “We’ve been fucking nonstop for a month. You hugged me. Twice! If you’re not worth my tears, then whose are you worth?”

He sighs and looks off, like I’m some hopeless cause, but his real answer to my question lies heavy in the air all around us. No one’s.

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