Page 50 of The Heir
It could go away if I turn myself over. Ella doesn't even care about GoCon anymore—that much is clear. She's singularly focused on using me to her advantage. Or maybe I'm wrong about that, and she just wants me dead. She wanted me to kill Dante. Maybe it's a two birds, one stone situation?
Fuck, I don't know, and the possibilities have my head throbbing. That stabbing pain behind my eyes just won't go away. I can't even cry anymore. I think I'm dehydrated—I don't have any liquid left to cry. Instead, I just pull my knees up to my chest and softly rock. Dante's hands slide to my shoulders, gently kneading. He whispers something to me, but I can't tell what it is.
Whatever he's saying, I don't deserve it.
Dante
Real estate tycoon. Iron-fisted boss. Crime lord. Cold-hearted dickhead. All of these are true about me, but what I so badly want to be right now is a good husband. My wife has curled into herself, hiding from the world. I want to hide with her. I want to protect her from anything andeverything.
I want to rip Ella's throat out. Unless Melody gets to her first—in which case, I want to watch. Avidly. With popcorn.
Melody trembles underneath my touch, and I have to force myself not to yank my hand away. I don't want to overwhelm her, but I need her to know I'm here. I need her to know I'll never leave her side. She looks haunted (Who wouldn't be?), and I want to kiss away her worries.
"Hello?" A man in a white coat stands nervously to the side, looking at our bedraggled little group. "I am Dr. Martinez. Your friend is in surgery."
"What's wrong with him?" Helena demands.
Dr. Martinez's eyes widen as he takes in her unkempt appearance. We're all unkempt, but blood stains her shirt and pants. Looking down at myself, I see I didn't get out clean, either.
"He is severely malnourished and has many broken bones. We are working to repair the worst of them. He will be stabilized." The man grimaces. "We are a small facility. We are doing everything we can."
"When can we see him?" Melody whispers, poking her head up.
Dr. Martinez's jaw drops. "Where is the cut?"
"What?" Melody scrunches her face in confusion.
"Blood—all over you. And you." He nods to Helena, who hugs herself tighter. "Where is the cut? Come! Hurry!"
A smaller group of nurses descends upon Melody. I'm on my feet before they can say a word. "I'm coming with her! She's my wife!"
"No." The doctor raises a hand and peeks over to a very large man with crossed arms. "I'm sorry, we need to examine her alone."
"She's mywife,"I snarl. "You touch her—you make her feelanykind of discomfort? I shoot everyone in this goddamn building."
At the word "shoot," the burly man's hand flies to his hip. Melody wrenches free from the grasp of a nurse and barrels towards us. Even though she's hurt—and most likely still out of her mind on the injected drugs—she shoves herself between me and the security guard. She throws her hands up, shielding me from him.
"Don't you dare hurt him," she grunts. I take a step back—I know my wife, and I know how dangerous she is in the best of times. But now? When there's a threat? I donotwant to be caught in the cross fire.
The security guard grimaces and sweeps his gaze from head to toe. Her arms start to tremble. Disregarding all personal safety, I scamper forth and envelop her in my arms.
"You're okay, love," I whisper in her ear. "You're safe. I'm fine. Let's get you checked out, okay?"
She stiffens but nods. The doctor sighs in relief, and the security guard resumes his post by the door. I guess people covered in blood aren't a rare occasion here. Only when they start screaming about guns do they jump into protective action.
I can't blame them, but I stand by what I said. I'm going the fuck with her.
"Do you want him to come with you?" Dr. Martinez calmly asks Melody. She nods, and he shrugs. "Alright. Follow me."
The nurses reconvene on Melody, and I follow—a little perturbed, but I'm not letting her out of my sight. I just won't. Not after everything she—we—went through. The women usher her into an exam room and hook her up to every machine in the building, it seems. One of them straps a blood pressure cuff around her arm. The cuff inflates, Melody winces, and every muscle in my body tenses.
"It's fine," she whispers. "They're doing their jobs."
I know. Logically, I know. But it doesn't unclench my fists. It doesn't make my racing pulse slow to something near normal. It doesn't stop the panicking sirens from blaring in my head. I want to squirrel her away forever, hide her, protect her from the world. I know it isn't healthy. I know it isn't good.
I don't care. All I care about right now is her safety. Ella won't touch her—shecan'ttouch her ever again.
Melody focuses entirely on me as the nurses flutter around her. One of them wipes the blood and dirt from her forehead while another types feverishly on her chart. The doctor discusses something in hushed tones, entirely in Spanish. Why don't I speak Spanish? I rake my hand down my face, grimacing at the scraggly feeling of my beard. Cold beads of sweat gather on the back of my neck.
