Chapter 3 Eian #2
I mean, he did say that besides the concussion I have two broken ribs, and he had to dissect a corner of my liver, but apparently that was four days ago and I’ve been semi-sedated for most of that time.
I also have some pretty impressive bruising .
. . all over, but that will go down soon enough according to him.
I look down at Maggie on instinct.
I want to hold her. More than anything I want to feel her soft breaths and make sure each of her perfect toes are still there, but I know better than to wake her. Besides, if she’s woken up to the punching bag I’m currently impersonating, her cries will probably break my heart.
Instead, I convince myself that the call of my bladder is stronger—lie—and test out my legs.
It becomes obvious pretty quickly that I can’t walk on my own, so I drag the IV stand into the bathroom with me and leave the door open so I can hear Maggie if she needs me.
I think I remember everything, or well, pretty much everything.
I have no clue who rescued me, except that it was probably someone he works with. I remember seeing him in a wheelchair, holding Maggie, and also the pain.
Before that befuddling image, all I remember is pain.
I wonder when that happened. Was it three days ago? Two? One? I’m going to have to find a way to get some answers before Maggie and I take our leave and move to another country.
I hear New Zealand is very nice this time of year. I bet they’d welcome us with open arms over there, and Maggie and I would be far, far away from this joke of a hospital, these people, and this godforsaken city where dreams come to die.
I make the mistake of looking at my reflection in the mirror, and the sharp, keen edge of not having anyone hits me.
I have Maggie, I remind myself. But she can’t help me through this. I’m going to have to do it on my own.
I give myself five minutes to wallow, to feel the self-pity in every pore of my body. Once those minutes are up, though, I stand up straight—as much as I can—and square my jaw.
I will get us through this.
“You’re awake.”
I stumble but manage to right myself using my IV cane. When I look over at the door, equal amounts of relief and rage fill me.
“What the fuck happened to you?” I ask him. “And will you just fucking tell me your name so I know who to make a voodoo doll of?
The asshole snickers. Snickers! The fucking gall of this dude, I swear.
“I’m Duffy.”
I’m confused enough to react without tamping down my emotions. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Nothing, at least I don’t think so.” A tiny frown scrunches up his forehead.
It’s not adorable, it really isn’t. “Anyway, I’m glad you survived,” he says with a sheepish grin.
“Mostly because now I get to ask you, what the fuck were you thinking? Going to that warehouse was the stupidest thing you could ever have done. There’s no way I’m gonna be able to save you from the boss, Colby.
Seriously, how the hell did the Italian trash get you? ”
That grin from before? Yeah, it vanished faster than a blink.
“I was looking for you,” I hiss at him. “I thought that for whatever reason, you didn’t call me for backup on one of your weird missions and got hurt or something, and I was right, wasn’t I?
” I’m still recovering from the whiplash his mood just gave me, so the screeching tone is justified, isn’t it?
He stares at me for a long few seconds like he doesn’t know if I’m joking or not.
“I mean, of all the stupid, idiotic shit to do, you decided to follow those assholes around? I thought you were smarter than that.”
“I am smart!” I argue, and no, it does not sound petulant, though . . . I know it was stupid, I do. “I just wanted to—”
“What? Pretend you’re part of the mob?” He scoffs and shakes his head at me as he rolls his wheelchair into the room and stops it two feet away from me.
“Colby, you have that adorable girl to take care of. You’re not made for this life.
Not the action part at least. That’s why I kept you on the sidelines. ”
I know he’s right, but—
“I know how you feel.”
“No you don’t,” I scoff, letting my snark out for real now. “You ever been kidnapped for being a nosy idiot then put your daughter’s life in the hands of the mob too?”
“Well, no,” he admits, and sounds freaking sad as he looks down at his feet. “But also kind of, yeah.”
“What do you mean, yeah?” I demand.
“Okay, so I don’t have a daughter, but—no, that’s a story for another day. I was in a coma for three weeks and woke up the night the boss, Blake, and Rory saved you.”
“The boss?” I ask, hating myself for it. Fuck me and my stupid need to know everything.
“That would be me.”
My body reacts with an absurdly violent shiver.
That voice.
Some seriously sick part of my subconscious reacts like a little hussy, and I better nip that in the bud because .
. . I remember that voice. I remember how safe I felt when he was holding me—rescuing me.
His arms under my back and legs felt unbreakable, and I remember knowing he’d never drop me.
But if I’d known then that it was Eian Dempsey holding me, I probably would’ve fought harder to get away.
Who am I kidding? I could barely speak when they got me out of that damned place. There’s no way I could’ve run. And if I’d been able to stare into those blue eyes, I would’ve been as struck as I am now.
A little over six feet tall, wearing a perfectly tailored, deep-navy, three-piece suit, every muscle he has is on display. His slacks hug his thick, strong thighs in an almost obscene way, and I have to force my eyes upward.
Yeah, Eian Dempsey’s a snack, trying to deny that would be a step too far into delusion, even for me, but he’s also very, very dangerous.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Maybe it wasn’t a concussion. Maybe I have permanent brain damage, because that thought can’t have just crossed my mind.
Seriously.
Eian walks slowly into the room and sends a glare down to Duffy that I hope is never aimed at me.
“You should be in bed.” The very serious and well, deadly tone doesn’t disturb Duffy at all though.
He just smiles up at Eian and—fuck, is he batting his eyelashes at him?
So maybe Eian just has this effect on everyone, but .
. . that doesn’t explain why I suddenly want to snap at Duffy to stop that.
“I’m doing my job and making sure he doesn’t escape.” He points at me without looking away from Eian, and I have to actually bite my tongue—painfully hard—to keep silent. This isn’t the time for snark, or to be a smartass and demand they don’t talk about me as if I’m not here.
“He can barely walk,” Eian says, that dangerous glint never leaving his eyes, I can see when he spares me a glance. “You’re just being an annoying little shit.”
“I’m never annoying.”
The scoff and sputter that leaves me barely sounds human, and that’s humiliating enough, but then I feel a wave of weakness pass through me.
“Shit,” Eian snaps, and then he’s holding me up by the arms.
“He’s so annoying,” I tell him for some strange reason, but I bet it’s because of his eyes. Those deep, sea-blue orbs are kind of hypnotizing, like truth serum.
“I know he is,” Eian tells me in a quiet murmur. I see his throat bob with a swallow, and then he’s pulling me toward the bed.
That . . . does not compute.
He’s the head of the Irish Mob, one of—if not the most—feared men in this city, and he’s tucking me into bed like that’s normal. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world, or at least a hundred skeletons—the literal kind—in his closet.
“You need to rest,” he says, a bit of that hard edge back in his tone, but I’m keeping my eyes on the sheet he covered my legs with. “Sleep. I need to fucking work. I’ll deal with you later.”
I try to protest, because the last thing I want is to have another conversation where my lack of common sense is harshly pointed out to me, but he just spins around and leaves, Duffy right on his heels.
So I guess I should sleep?
When I open my eyes again, I turn on autopilot, looking for Maggie. I find the crib empty and that familiar panic comes back to life with a vengeance.
“Maggie,” I whisper, and sit up fast enough for my stomach to protest, but I don’t give a fuck. I need—
“She’s right here.” Duffy’s voice comes from my left where . . . There’s another bed there. It wasn’t there before, he—fucking hell, he moved in?
And he’s not holding Maggie’s sleeping form, a woman is.
Same dark hair as Duffy, and when she looks up right into my eyes, I know they have to be related somehow. Those are the same green eyes, but the shape and color are the only things they share. Behind the woman’s eyes there’s none of that emotion that brims in Duffy’s.
It’s blank, just completely blank.
“You were there,” I whisper, not able to take my eyes away from her.
I know when to listen to my damn survival instincts, and everything inside me is screaming to be careful, to grab Maggie and run.
Logic doesn’t matter right now—not the fact that she’s part of the group of people who saved me, or that she’s cuddling my sleeping baby girl like she’s a precious piece of crystal.
“I was.” I remember her voice, and there’s no doubt in my mind she’s some kind of psycho—the clinical kind.
“Can I please hold her?”
It’s a humbling thing, to have to ask to hold my own daughter, but I know it’s the only way. I doubt I could fight her off, not only because I’m beat to hell but because she could probably take me with a hand tied behind her back and without breaking a sweat.
The woman smiles, and to her credit, I can tell it’s genuine. Problem is, that smile is pretty terrifying.
“Of course,” she murmurs, and stands from Duffy’s bed then expertly passes Maggie over to me without waking her up.