Jethro
NILA LAUGHED.
I looked up from my report on the latest smuggling shipment and covered my eyes from the overwhelming sunshine behind her.
She stood haloed in golden warmth—like the goddess I worshipped daily. She was ethereal, magical...mine.
“What’s so funny?”
She skipped to my side and took my hand.
The instant her skin touched mine, my heart tripped over.
Even after all this time together, even after entwining our lives completely, I was still hopelessly smitten.
She was my queen—the custodian of my soul—just like I’d promised when I’d given in to her the night I told her everything.
With a tender smile, she placed my hand on her growing belly.
My jaw clenched with a mixture of all-consuming love, pride, and protectiveness.
She’s carrying my child.
We made this unborn creature together.
Half her, half me. It would be a Weaver and Hawk. Seamstress and diamond smuggler.
Ours.
“He kicked.”
“Really?” I pressed my hand harder.
The firmness of her belly didn’t move.
Nila’s face fell. “He’s stopped.”
I gathered her close, pressing a kiss on her cotton-covered bump. “You keep saying he. We haven’t found out the sex yet. It could just as easily be a girl.”
She shook her head, her long black hair soaking up the sun as if she somehow harnessed its power. I loved her hair. I loved how free it made her.
“It’s a boy.”
Tugging her onto my lap, I kissed her lips. This woman utterly beguiled me. “What if I don’t want a boy? What if I want a little girl who is as perfect as you?”
“He’s coming to.”
“Move aside, please.”
Loud beeps filled my ears. Pain swamped. Heaviness shackled. Agony battered from all directions.
Fuck, make it stop.
I didn’t like it here. I wanted to go back. Return to where the sunshine glowed and my wife carried my child.
More pain crescendoed. I gave up fighting.
Fuck, make it stop...make it stop!
My heart accelerated, shoving me head-first into my wish.
With a sigh, I let go of my body, ignored the summons trying to drag me back to life, and fell.
“You want a girl?”
I nodded. “More than anything.”
“And what if I want a son?”
“You’ll just have to wait.”
Nila giggled. “Wait?”
I pulled her close, inhaling her soft scent of wild-flowers and summer. “Until we have another one.”
“Mr. Ambrose. Come on.”
The warm illusion shattered again.
I tensed, preparing for pain to welcome me back. There was no pain. Only a fog. A metallic blanket blocked the fever and excruciating agony. For the first time in forever, I could think without being handicapped by suffering.
With the discomfort gone, it opened the gates for everything else to become known.
My body was tired. Beyond tired. Bone weary and sluggish.
I don’t want to be here.
I missed my dream world where everything was sunshine and smiles, away from whatever memories snarled on the outskirts of comprehension.
I want to forget...just for a little longer.
Sleep gripped my mind, tugging me backward, slipping me under the surface and delivering me back to Nila.
“Another one?” She swatted my chest, laughing in the bright afternoon. “Getting a bit greedy, don’t you think?”
I nuzzled her neck. “Greedy? I wouldn’t call it greedy.”
Her lips parted as I trailed kisses up her throat, skirting her chin, hovering over her mouth. Her breath cracked and shortened, waiting in anticipation of a kiss. “Oh? What would you call it?”
I paused over her lips. I wanted so badly to kiss her. To drink her taste and pour my love down her throat. I wanted so desperately to heal her. To forget about the past and remind both of us that it was over. That we were free.
“I call it building a better future.”
Nila’s head tipped back. I captured her nape, keeping her locked in my control. My mouth watered, still millimetres from kissing her.
“How many?” she whispered as my lips finally touched hers.
My tongue slipped into her mouth, tangoing with hers, dancing the same dance we knew by heart.
I would recognise Nila even if all my senses were stolen.
I would know her if I was blind, deaf, and mute.
I would always know her because I could feel her.
Her love had a certain flavour—a sparkling liquor that intoxicated me whenever I let down my walls and felt what she felt, lived what she lived.
I murmured, “As many as we can.”
“Mr. Ambrose, you have to open your eyes.”
That damn voice again. And that name...it was wrong. That wasn’t my name.
Once again, I tried to ignore the tugging, wanting to fall backward into sleep, but this time the gates were shut. I couldn’t slip.
I hovered there—in an in-between world where darkness steadily became lighter and the world slowly solidified.
The pain was still blanketed, the tiredness not as consuming, but there was strangeness everywhere.
Strange smells.
Strange noises.
Strange people.
Where am I?
“That’s it, wake up. We won’t bite.”
I cringed against the false, upbeat tone. I didn’t tolerate insincerity and whoever encouraged me hid his true thoughts.
My condition was the first sense to return with full force, feeding off the man beside me—the man who cared, worried, and clinically assessed me. In his mind, I belonged to him. My progress, my recovery—it was all testament to his skills as my...
Doctor.
The unfamiliar place and unfamiliar smells suddenly made a lot more sense.
Bright lights were brighter and the blanket hiding me from pain lived deep in my veins.
Drugs.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe.
But I was alive.
And mistakenly being called Mr. Ambrose.
The beeping sound flurried faster as I slipped back into all facets of my body. Fingers to fingers. Toes to toes. It was like dressing in expensive cashmere after weeks of wearing scratchy wool. It was home.
“He’s coming to.”
“That’s it. We’re here. No need to fear. You’re safe.”
The doctor’s voice reached into the remaining darkness in my brain, plucking me to the surface. My eyes were heavy drapes, musty and full of moths, refusing to open.
A wash of frustration came from nowhere—tugging me faster from my haze, slamming me into a body I no longer wanted.
My eyes opened.
“Great. Awesome job, Mr. Ambrose.”
I promptly closed them again. The room was too bright, too much to see.
“Give it a moment and the discomfort will pass.” Someone patted me on the shoulder. The drumbeat resonated through my body, awakening everything else.
I tried again, squinting this time to limit the amount of light.
The scene before me crystallised from a sea of wishy-washy watercolours to shapes I recognised.
I knew this world. Yet I don’t know these people.
I was back in a broken body, battered within an inch of my life. I was cold and feeling nauseous, and interminably tired. I preferred my dream world where Nila was safe, we were happy, and there was no mad evil threatening to tear us apart.
The doctor clasped my hand—the one free of an IV needle.
I tried to tug away but my brain failed to send the message, leaving me in his grasp. “You gave us quite a scare, Mr. Ambrose.”
I swallowed, forcing my emaciated throat to lubricate. “Th—that isn’t m—my—” I cut myself off before I could finish.
My name...what was my name...?
It only took a fraction.
I’m Jethro Hawk. Heir to Hawksridge, firstborn, and recently murdered by his own father. Everything of my past, my trials, and my love for Nila slotted into perfect place, leaving me clearheaded and aware.
As far as my father knew, I’d died when the bullet meant for Jasmine tore into my body. Whoever had delivered me to the hospital was on my side. And the name was a mask keeping me safe.
A flash of agony made its way through whatever painkillers they’d given me, kick-starting me onto another subject. “W—who are y—you?”
The doctor studied me. His brown handlebar moustache and shock of unruly hair didn’t match the somber light green scrubs he wore or the softness of his hand around mine. He looked like an eccentric farmer, someone more at home hugging a chicken, than nursing a patient back to life.
“My name is Jack Louille. I was the surgeon who operated on you.” His eyes cast down to my stomach, covered in starchy white sheets. “It was touch and go for a bit, but you responded well to treatment.”
“W—what treat—treatment?”
He beamed, a rush of pride emitting from him, his emotions of a job well done and workplace satisfaction buffeting me. “I don’t know how much you remember, but you were shot.”
I nodded. “My m—memory is fully in—intact.” The more I spoke, the more my throat found it easier to talk.
“Ah, that’s great news. As you are aware then, a bullet sliced through your side.
” He leaned over me. “I don’t need to tell you how close it came to being a fatal wound.
An abdominal injury can rupture intestines, liver, spleen, and kidneys.
There are also major vessels that can be nicked—all of which equal a lower possibility of survival—especially in your case, since you were unable to seek treatment straight away. ”
Why was that?
I couldn’t recall.
Memories of time skipping and fire hissing tried to make sense. Kestrel had been beside me...
Kes!
I lashed out, grabbing the doctor’s wrist. My body flared with agony, but I ignored it. “The other m—man. Is he here, t—too?” I didn’t dare say his name. I doubted he would be under it anyway—same as me.
Doctor Louille paused, his happiness at my recovery fading as helplessness smothered his thoughts.
“Your brother is still with us, but...we don’t know for how long.
His injuries were more extensive, less straightforward to operate.
” He cleared his throat. “I’ll tell you about him soon.
First, let me explain your condition and then you need to rest. There is time for everything else later. ”
No, there is no time.
If Kes wasn’t doing well, I wanted to see him before it was too late.
I need my brother. My friend.