Page 28 of The Sound of Seduction
“I prevented that—”
“And I’ll be forever grateful. But they will be back.”
Andre paused briefly, then turned to dab a cloth soaked in medicinal oil along the inflamed edges of the wound. Stan tensed his jaws against the sting.
“It’s worse than I feared,” Andre said, a note of concern sliding beneath his usual calm. “Stan, have you noticed you’re burning up?”
“No,” Stan lied, though every breath he drew seemed to feed the heat suffusing his body. He could feel it crawling beneath his skin like fire licking at dry kindling.
“Mm-hm.” Andre’s brow lifted, unconvinced. His hand pressed against Stan’s forehead, an action efficient but bordering with exasperation. “You have a fever,” Andre confirmed, his tone leaving no room for argument. Not that Stan didn’t try.
“And what of it?” Stan shot back.
Andre surveyed him as if he were a particularly stubborn case study. “What of it? You’re flush with fever, your shoulder’s inflamed, and you’re sitting here asking ‘what of it.’” He stepped a pace back, his hands falling to his hips in disbelief. “People with infections of this magnitude don’t typically sit upright, Stan. Mostcertainlynot while barking orders.”
“I don’t have the luxury of being laid low,” Stan bit out, leaning forward despite the ache in his muscles. “Not while von List’s men are still after Thea. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…” He trailed off, shaking his head. The words curdled in his throat, pressing hard against his chest. He would not remain idle, awaiting yet another misfortune to befall them, for twice was already more than enough.
Andre’s expression softened—slightly. “You said yourself they shoved you aside. What happened wasn’t a failure,” he said evenly.
“It wasn’t me who saved her, Andre. But thanks to you she’s safe.” Stan’s voice dropped, the words tangling with his guilt and frustration. “Do you understand what that’s like? Two men came into that house and made me powerless. They laid their hands on her, my sister.” His fists curled on instinct as though the memory alone required a physical response. “And it’s all because I took on List.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the rustle of bandages in Andre’s capable hands.
“With your fever and that shoulder, I’d hardly call standing upright a failure,” Andre finally said dryly, though the edge of his voice softened in reproach. “Most men would be halfway to a grave by now. The fact you were upright at all is nothing short of a miracle.”
“I don’t dream of miracles; I need solutions,” Stan muttered, the fire of his anger dimming slightly, smothered out by exhaustion. His shoulders sagged momentarily, though the fight in him persisted.
Andre tied off the fresh bandage carefully. “A good start might be resting for more than an hour between brooding sessions,” he offered lightly, though his gaze grounded Stan. “And letting the wound air might do better than wrapping it again.”
Stan gestured dismissively, the idea of surrendering to rest agitating him further. “I can’t.”
“Youwon’t,” Andre corrected without missing a beat.
Stan ignored the comment, his thoughts drifting to familiar territory—the face he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind. Wendy’s smile flickered in his memory, her tone soft but steady. For days now, she’d lingered at the edge of his every thought like sunlight through a haze.
“If anything had happened to Thea that day…” Stan began, then cut himself off, his mind catching the parallels before he could stop them. Could he bear to involve Wendy further when his own life was this volatile? Nick certainly wouldn’t approve, and Stan could hardly fault him for that. He’d nearly unraveled entirely when List’s men took Thea. To bring Wendy any closer felt like folly.
And yet…
“I need a private nurse if you want me to stay locked up till the fever breaks,” Stan said abruptly, breaking the tension with the force of the confession. He hadn’t intended it to come out quite like that, but Andre stilled, his attention now wholly on him.
“A nurse,” Andre repeated, measuring his words. “And by that, you mean?”
“Miss Folsham. Nurse Wendy,” Stan said evenly, though the heat climbing his neck betrayed him. “At Cloverdale House. If I’m to recover, it must be someone I can trust—and someone with skill that you approve of. It’s safe here with the new guards in place.”
Andre’s mouth curved faintly, a subtle shift that could have passed as indifference, yet Stan felt the air tighten between them. Their eyes locked, and the room stretched quiet except for the muffled ticking of the mantel clock. Nothing was said, but the silence resonated louder than words.
Stan stiffened, his shoulder aching, but the discomfort barely registered. His thoughts pulled sharply to Wendy—her steady voice, the way she met his gaze without flinching, her gentleness wrapped in an iron will. Andre had always spoken highly of her, but now Stan understood the depth of that admiration. It was more than appreciation. It was protectiveness—sharp and uncompromising, woven into every careful motion of Andre’s hands as he adjusted Stan’s bandages and tied off a sling to support his arm.
“You want Wendy as your private nurse?” Andre seemed to test the words with the protectiveness of a big brother. Stan understood why. Of course, he did.
His jaw tightened, but his expression smoothed into neutrality, save for the slight lift of one dark brow. He didn’t need to say anything. Andre’s own stance answered questions unvoiced. His shoulders were squared, feet planted firmly as ifbracing against something unseen. The message was clear—and Stan didn’t miss any part of it.
Andre’s closeness to Wendy wasn’t born simply out of respect. It ran deeper, a connection strong enough to make any man cautious. Stan didn’t falter under Andre’s gaze, though a flicker of heat crept across his skin from restraint. He turned his attention inward, deliberately keeping his emotions penned tightly where they couldn’t betray him. He liked Wendy, perhaps too much, and Andre would know it, even without Stan admitting it.
The pulse of tension hummed between them, filling the chasm of unspoken truths. But just as Stan began to settle into this unyielding exchange, another connection struck him—a thought so sudden it hit like a blow. Thea.
“You saved my sister.” Stan narrowed his eyes slightly, observing Andre with renewed scrutiny. There it was again—that faint flicker, that hiccup of hesitation in the otherwise calm fortitude Andre carried. It was gone as quickly as it came, but not before Stan noted it. His brow arched a little higher, his expression cool, as if asking,Shall we talk about you and Thea, then?
