Page 51 of Wicked Promises (Fallen Royals 3)

Her face falls. “God, Margo, the police took him out of here so forcefully, I didn’t know what to think. But you said you saw who it really was?”

“One of his friends from a different school.” My stomach turns over. “It wasn’t Caleb.”

“I believe you.” She wraps her arm around my shoulders and leading me down the hall. “And I know the detective was rather critical, but I wouldn’t let you stay in the same house as Caleb if I thought he had something to do with it.”

I tilt my head. “But… you did point the detective in Caleb’s direction while I was gone, didn’t you?”

“I gave him the names of everyone you’re friends with. I didn’t know he was going to single out Caleb. Are you ready to see Robert?”

We stop in front of a door to a private room. She releases me, and I enter on my own, creeping farther in. The busyness of the hall falls away.

He’s propped up in bed, a rolling table in front of him with a plate of food on it, and… so much medical equipment surrounds him. Wires disappear under his gown, there’s an IV taped to his arm. He has a tube under his nose for oxygen.

How can a person go from strong to so frail in days? His skin is pale. His face is covered in healing cuts and fading bruises, and his right arm is in a cast, slung to his chest.

This is my fault. I put him here.

I can’t move.

But I still catch his eye—or maybe it’s the snick of the door closing.

His whole damn face lights up.

And me? I burst into tears.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he says, reaching for me. He pushes the table away.

I’m stuck in guilt, my shoes glued to the floor. How do people overcome anguish?

“Margo.” His hand is still stretched toward me.

I finally move, venturing closer. He’s pale. They had intubated him for a collapsed lung, sedated him. And now…

“Come here,” he repeats. He scoots to the edge of the bed, patting the space next to him.

I wipe at my face, but the tears keep coming. I finally sit next to him. Take his hand.

He lifts my hand and kisses the back of it. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

There’s a thousand pound weight on my chest. Slowly, I lie next to him. I curl my arm over his chest and lay my head on his shoulder.

He smooths my hair.

Wipes my cheeks.

He brushes my hair back from the cut on my forehead, and I feel his sharp intake of breath.

“That’s nice stitching,” he says. “Good as new, yeah? Both of us.”

“You—” I close my eyes. “No. You’re not good as new. You’re in a hospital bed. Your arm, your lung—”

“All will heal.”

“It’s my fault,” I whisper. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”

The guilt overwhelms me, and I choke on a sob. He hugs me closer. I fall apart, but he keeps whispering words I can’t make sense of. It’s okay, and We’re all right. But those are just things you say to make someone feel better.

I deserve to feel bad about this.

---