Page 171 of The Billionaire's Secret
"What?" I turn around, "What do you mean? How is she…?"
He watches me with a considering gaze.
My throat closes. "Is she?" my voice cracks. Jesus, fuck. I curl my fingers into fists, "Tell me Weston, or so help me I’ll—"
"He could have shot her in the chest or in the head, but he didn’t." Weston rubs the back of his neck."
"He shot her," I growl. "She was bleeding."
"It was a flesh wound."
I blink.
"What?" Damian straightens.
Edward rises to his feet.
Arpad, Sinclair and Summer move in closer.
"So… She’s fine…?"
"The doc stitched her up, but she’s okay."
"Right." The knot in my chest eases. I head for the entrance when a nurse enters. "The patient is asking for—"
"Me," I step forward, "I’m her husband."
She glances past me, "Dr Weston, she wants to see you."
"There’s a mistake." I frown, "She must have asked for me. Saint? She’s my wife."
The nurse’s features taken on an expression of pity. I stiffen. I hate that look, have seen enough of it.
"Let me through," I growl.
I brush past her and she touches my arm, "I’m sorry, but she doesn’t want to see you."
43
Victoria
I dig my fingers into the hospital bed. My shoulder throbs. The pain from the gunshot wound matches the throbbing sensation in my chest. At least they pulse in synchrony. That has to count for something, huh? A giggle bubbles up my throat.
Hell, don't lose your shit now. Deep breath, stay calm. You’ve come this far; you can see it through to the end.
I shut my eyes and see Saint’s face—his concern, the way he’d seemed to appear from out of nowhere and catch me as I fell. The last thing I remember is the fear in his eyes, the paleness of his beautiful features, the vein throbbing at his temple. Then his arms had closed around me, he’d cradled me to his chest, and I had felt safe… Safe, despite the fact that I’d been shot.
I’d known then that he’d do anything to protect me. He really did mean what he’d said. He cared for me… As for love? Perhaps he does love me, but will he accept this child...? Will he want to participate in bringing up this child, when he'd told me in no uncertain terms that he doesn't want children.
Weston walks into the hospital room, "You okay?"
I nod, try to swallow, but my throat is dry. I glance toward the side table. He walks to it, pours out some water and hands me a glass. I accept it and take a few sips.
"He wants to see you."
My fingers tremble. The glass tips and water splashes onto my hospital gown.
My heart hammers in my chest. "I don’t… I can’t…"
