Page 4 of Exile
Married to the very one who saved me from a fate worse than death.
And now, I'm sitting here, covered in his blood after he took a bullet from his own father to protect me. I want to kill him… lovingly, of course. He should have let me take the hit. We need him.
The patients need him.
Cirque des Morts needs him.
How did I end up here? And for a second time in a year nonetheless.
Realistically, I know the answer to that on a surface level. After we were dragged away from Damon, kicking and screaming, I found myself back in my room. But a short while later, the door opened, leaving me face to face with a barely composed Dr. Smith and two police officers.
At first, they took me to his office—a sight that will be forever ingrained in my soul. The corridor still showcased our earlier fight; blood splattered all over the walls and floor, and dead bodies flat on the ground surrounded by uniformed officials. You'd thinkthatwould be the worst sight. But nothing could prepare me for the crimson pool in the middle of the walkway. Damon's physical presence may have been gone from the spot, but in my mind, I could still see him lying onthe floor. His pale skin, ragged breathing. My hands trembled as I tried to pump his chest, repeating his name over and over as I begged him to wake back up before rough hands tore me away.
I couldn't let him die. Even the dead bodies surrounding us couldn't distract me from the pool of blood I knew was his.
Lilydale promised to save me, even when I adamantly believed I was beyond salvation. But in a strange turn of events, I was saved.
By Grey. By Theo. And by Damon.
There's no life for me if those three aren't in it. Damon is the glue that holds us together—the foundation of support while Grey and Theo are my pillars of strength.
It turns out Dr. Smith is quick on his feet. When the police and paramedics arrived at Lilydale, they started triaging staff and patients, escorting those who needed medical attention to the hospital. Even if Dr. Markel was a skilled surgeon and not hyperfixated on lullabies, he'd be out of his depth with what just happened. Too many dead and injured for one man to handle.
From what I could make out as I was escorted in handcuffs from Dr. Smith's office to the entrance, Alexander and Whittingham were too busy chatting to detectives, getting their story straight. They don't care about the welfare of the patients or staff, so it was up to Dr. Smith to jump in, directing first responders to people he thought needed medicalattention. But he knows as well as I do that I wasn't injured. For once, I caught on quickly to his tactic and stupid riddles, playing along. I was covered in blood, making it unclear whether or not I had any wounds, so I used that to my advantage.
It gave me the opportunity to temporarily get out of Lilydale, away from the disaster that was going down. It's ironic really—especially after Dr. Smith tried so hard to get me out of the facility after Sam's death and accidentally framed me for murder. At least this time he got it right…
I didn't want to leave Grey and Theo behind, but after catching a glimpse of Damon's lifeless frame being hoisted into a separate ambulance, I knew where I needed to be. That man did not just save me to be left alone and unprotected. I suspect that was Dr. Smith's motive too, as well as attempting to get me away from Alexander and Whitface. My new father-in-law wanted to kill me—and not in the hilarious in-law fashion that people joke about. Actuallymurder me—and his own son.
The only consolation was that I saw all the dead bodies in the hallway when I was escorted to Dr. Smith's office. If Damon was being taken to the hospital, that had to mean something. It has to mean he was still breathing or had a fighting chance. Otherwise, they would have left him on the cold floor with the other bodies…
Right?
Perhaps I can use our marriage as leverage somehow at the hospital. Maybe that was what Dr. Smith was also hinting at me to do. I'm not sure—all I know is he was trying to get me out of there while detectives scoured the corridors, taking photographs and placing those bright yellow numbers where dead bodies lay fallen.
In Lilydale, our marriage probably means nothing except for currency and a weapon of war, but to the outside world, to the hospital… Maybe it holds power.
Of course, I'm still a criminal in the eyes of the law and very much a suspect who was directly involved in the events of today. I may not have held a gun, but I can bet my life that Whitface wouldn't hesitate to throw me under the bus. They will spin the narrative, blaming us for the events that went down. Especially Damon when he can't defend himself.
When I arrived at the hospital, Damon was nowhere to be seen. I was taken, still handcuffed, to a tiny room near the ER. Apparently, they have a special room for people like us. A small, isolated white room where law enforcement can keep me away from the general public like I'm a dangerous monster. It’s adjacent from the waiting area, people staring through the open door at my bloodied frame with horrified looks.
Cuffed and chained like an animal, covered in a sickening amount of blood, it's easy to see they think I killed someone. If only they knew that the real monsters were the ones in expensive suits, living among them. Soulless creatures whowould rather kill their own blood than risk losing a single cent from their beloved bank accounts.
I've never been a patient person. I'm my own worst enemy. Every second that passes, the voices in my head chant my unspoken fears, threatening to send me into permanent madness.
I don't know what's worse really: being here, clueless and wondering if Damon has taken his last breath. Or being away from Grey and Theo, wondering if they have been hurt by the aristocratic madmen who call themselves doctors and businessmen. After all, wouldn't Alexander and Arthur want to make sure they are silenced? The police will be asking questions while the media flocks to the Lilydale grounds, eagerly frothing at the mouth and demanding their next front page story.
Money can't buy our silence. But a bullet can.
"Can you loosen the handcuffs?" I ask the cop stationed at the door.
He glances lazily over his shoulder at me, chewing gum. "No."
He practically reeks of arrogance and superiority even though he's probably only a handful of years older than me. His murky blue eyes spoke volumes when he first laid eyes on me at Lilydale. He sneered at my frame, not bothering to be gentle when he cuffed me. Even the product in his hair smells expensive, the wax ensuring every single black hair remains in place while dealing with us. I know officers don'tget paid much, so there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s some kind of nepo baby, using his trust fund in his free time while wielding power at work to feel as important as his wealth proclaims him to be.
"It's hurting me," I say quietly, attempting to draw a fraction of humanity from him. The silver cuffs bang against the table as I jiggle them, showing him how tight they are pressed against my wrists which are turning a light shade of purple.
"Tough shit," he mumbles, laughing to his colleague.
