Page 156 of I Was Always Yours (RCA: Royal Crown Academy)

“No.” I snarl and she backs away.

No one else tries to get me to move and they leave me alone as I stand guard over her. It’s only when I see her regain consciousness that I let the tidal wave of emotions I’d been holding off hit me. I sag under the weight and power of my fear, my hand dropping in my hands.

The time I spend watching the doctors work on her, her small body looking even smaller surrounded by large machines and hundreds of wires, makes what has been obvious to me for weeks even more painfully clear.

Fuck the money. Fuck walking away from this engagement.

She’s mine and I’m keeping her.

Chapter 45

Sixtine

When I come to, I’m lying in a comfortable hospital room with no clear memory of how I got there.

A kindly nurse explains it all to me in French; the peanut oil, the massive allergic reaction, the loss of consciousness, and Phoenix bringing me to the hospital.

His arms are crossed and he’s leaning against the opposing wall, his dark gaze inscrutable as he watches me intently. He lets the nurse do the talking, his eyes never leaving mine as she continues.

“Anyway, your boyfriend took very good care of you.” She says, in French. “He administered epinephrine, drove here like a bat out of hell according to themanywitnesses to his reckless driving, and then refused to leave your side.”

She takes my vitals as she talks, her body obstructing my view of him as she does so.

“Fiancé.” He cuts in, finally speaking as he takes a step forward and walks out from behind the nurse. Unwavering intensity burns in his gaze as he pins me to the bed with his eyes.

It unsettles me that he chose this moment to acknowledge our engagement to someone else for the first time when he ended things two days ago.

“Oh, how wonderful!” She exclaims. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were engaged.”

“That’s alright. Thank you for everything you and your team have done for her.”

I’m having a hard time tracking the conversation because I’m taken aback by the fact that it’s happening in perfect French, a language he supposedly doesn’t speak.

They finish their exchange and the nurse pats him on the shoulder on her way out.

“Since when do you speak French?” I ask, playing with the hem of my sweater and avoiding his eyes.

“A long time.”

“When?”

“Before secondary school.”

I meet his gaze again, mine searching. “Why?”

“Maybe I was hoping I’d need it one day.” He answers, vaguely. I look away and he adds, quietly. “In case my wife turned out to be French, for example.”

My gaze snaps back up to meet his and my mouth opens.

“Alright, Miss Tellier,” the doctor says, walking into the room. “You responded well to the epinephrine and cortisone, so I’m going to discharge you now. I’ll write you a prescription for antihistamines and albuterol. I want you to use it if you have any trouble breathing, got it?” I nod and she signs the pad then rips a sheet off and hands it to me. “Otherwise, you’re all set. You’re lucky your fiancé was so quick to react and get you care, you should be back to full strength by tomorrow. Do you have any questions for me?”

I shake my head and she helps me into a wheelchair. I try to fight her on it, but she tells me it’s protocol. She hands me over to Phoenix and lets him push me out to reception where I have to sign discharge papers, and then outside.

The awkwardness I feel is nearly more suffocating than the anaphylaxis. I don’t want to force him to be here when he chose to end things.

Just thinking about that has emotion clogging my throat. I need to put distance between us before I start crying.

I try standing, my legs somewhat shaky. “Well, thanks for saving my life.” I tell him.

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