Page 49 of Daddy's Vengeance

Twenty

Cole

An hour into our flight and Adele was still out cold. Between the blood loss, the head injury, and the pain medication she’d been given it didn’t seem unusual, but it still worried me.

Just as I was about to call for the doctor to see if I needed to try waking her up, she moaned, a low, pitiful sound that had me moving to the bed.

“Hey, sweetheart. Can you wake up for Daddy?”

“Non.”

If the situation hadn’t been quite so serious, the petulance in her voice would have been adorable. And it still was, but my concern over her injuries overrode any amusement I might have found.

“Baby, you need to open your eyes.”

More mumbled French as the furrow between her brows deepened. Sighing, I brushed the hair from her face. “Stubborn little girl.”

“I am not stubborn. I am tired.”

Relief flooded me to the point I was certain my knees would have given out on me if I’d been standing up. “I know, sweetheart. But Daddy still needs you to wake up, just for a little bit. Come on.”

Hooking my hands under her arms, I pulled her up so she was leaning back against the wall. One eyelid lifted a fraction, and she moaned again.

“Too bright.”

“I’ll turn the lights off.” The switch was right beside the bed, so I simply leaned over her to flip it off, plunging us into darkness broken only by the rows of dim lighting along the floor and tucked up under the cabinets. “Better?”

Cautiously, she opened her eyes, bit by bit until I could see her blinking owlishly even in the dark. “Yes, thank you.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like a madman tried to kill me,” she replied dryly, looking down at her bandaged arms. “But not so bad, all things considered.”

“How much do you remember?”

“All of it, I think.” She looked back up at me, but her expression was impossible to read in the dark. “Giorgio is dead?”

“Yes.”

“So, your cousin is avenged.”

There was no judgment, no pity in the statement. Just a simple statement of fact, and yet it still had a lump forming in my throat. “Yes.”

“I saw her. Pierce had a file on you, and there were pictures of her, from… before. And after.”

“Oh, baby. I never would have wanted you to see that.”

“I am not weak, Cole.” Closing her eyes, she dragged in a deep breath. “I assume you know by now, I am not a maid.”

“I do.” Part of me wanted to wait to have this conversation, until she was better, until she was healed. Until she was mine. But at my core, I knew the longer I put it off, the more likely it was we would simply never talk about. And that was a breeding ground for resentment and doubt. “But why don’t you tell me your version of the story.”

“Oui. Yes. May I have a drink, before we begin?”

“Of course.” Navigating by memory, I crossed the small bedroom to the mini fridge and grabbed us each a bottle of water.

Settled on the bed once more, I handed her a bottle. “Drink, and then we can talk.”

Adele

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