Page 131 of The Kiss of Deception

The only reason my steps remain even is the small detail of our setting. A hospital with a dozen other people around.

I frown.

Why is he seated in a crowded waiting room with half of the prying eyes on him—the other half wondering why?

He raises his bent head slowly as I approach, as though he’s recognized me by the tempo of my step or the muffled clatter of my sneakers.

I stop right in front of him. “What are you doing here?”

For a long moment, his eyes flash as they scan every centimeter of my face, lingering on my small scar. Only then does he answer with a gravelly rasp, as though that’s what sealed reality: in his imagination, there’s no space for mars on my skin. “Only family can visit.”

Under my hands that cradle his cheeks, Miles shudders—and again when I whisper with reverence, “You’re his family, too.”

Then he unfolds his fists from where they dangled in his lap. He takes hold of my hand, his stride demanding I jog to keep up.

But I don’t care, because all I see is his hand on mine.

“What happened to your hand?” I half breathe, half gasp.

With his back to me, the span of his wide shoulders under a dark sweatshirt occupies my entire sight. I can’t read his face, but the way his breathing sharpens tells me enough.

“Blackstein.” I dig my nails precisely into his angry hand, my question morphing into a demand when an answer doesn’t come. “What happened to your hand?”

Veering right, he pushes a heavy door with such force the hinges complain. Once we’re both on the other side, he lets it fall closed with its own weight.

I look around. “Stairwell?”

“People are too lazy to use the stairs.” He drops my hand. “It was either this or stealing an elevator. And I didn’t want to be responsible for someone’s death by occupying an elevator that might be needed for some emergency.”

Without turning from me, as if he wants to make sure I won’t try to leave while he’s distracted, Miles walks backwards until his back hits the opposite wall in front of the stairs that descend from above.

“I might be responsible for someone’s death if you don’t answer the question.” The longer he doesn't reply, the more my temper flares and smothers the concern. “You. I might throw you down these stairs. Your hand?”

As soon as I mention his limb for the thousandth time, his fists flex violently before he hides them in his armpits as his arms fold. “I had an itch, and so I scratched it.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I frown, frustrated and fed up, which reminds me I’m mad at him. “Where the hell have you been? I searched half of the city for you.”

All day, I’ve been going mad running in circles all over the city, my mind spinning with worry as the hours passed without a trace of him.

Finally, my words seem to permeate through his haze.

“I searched the entire city for you.”

His chest heaves, though I don’t think it was from exertion.

It’s from taking the very first full breath in a long time, his lungs expanding after wilting and withering.

“I went to your old apartment.” He pulls at one bruised finger, though it doesn’t seem to bother him, hard enough that it pales in comparison to the others. Then another. “I went to your work. I was at the police station, so—”

“You went to my work?”

“Yeah.”

“You went to my work today?”

“Yes.”

“Miles, why would you do that? That’s insane. Walking inside a building full of hungry journalists amidst a scandal. Why would you walk straight into that hell?”

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