Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Diego
“Alittle higher on the left side,” I direct, watching as Dane adjusts the portable medical monitor they’ve set up beside Zoe’s bed. Not her temporary guest room. Her real room. The one we spent that first night with her in. The one she should have been in all along.
“Like this?” Dane asks as he makes the adjustment.
“Perfect.” I step back, surveying the space with a critical eye.
The room has been transformed in the last twenty-four hours.
Fresh flowers fill crystal vases on every surface, and no, they are not carnations.
Their gentle fragrance helps to mask the antiseptic hospital smell that still clings to her skin.
The sheets are new, soft Egyptian cotton in a pale lavender that complements her skin tone.
A humidifier releases a gentle mist of cool air to ease her breathing.
A mix of books from her apartment, from carefully selected art history volumes to dog-eared romance novels and poetry collections, is stacked within easy reach on the nightstand.
Everything is perfect. Everything has to be perfect.
“The doctor said her fever’s stable,” Tristan says, leaning against the doorframe. “Not getting worse, but not getting better either.”
I nod, adjusting the blanket over Zoe’s sleeping form for the fifth time in as many minutes. “The marks?”
Tristan’s expression tightens. “Still fading.”
The bond is slipping away, hour by hour. We can all feel it. A slow unraveling that leaves a hollow ache in my chest when I let myself think about it too long.
“I’ve set up a rotation,” Rett says, joining us. He looks marginally better than he did at the hospital. He’s showered, at least, though the dark circles under his eyes remain. “We’ll take shifts. Someone with her at all times.”
“I’ll take first watch,” I say immediately.
None of them argues. They know this is something I need to do. Something I’ve been preparing for since we made our decision at the hospital.
“Call if anything changes,” Rett says, gaze lingering on Zoe’s pale face. “Anything at all.”
I nod, already settling into the armchair we’ve positioned beside her bed. “I will.”
But they don’t leave.
They just stand there in the doorway, a silent, indecisive trio. Tristan shoves his hands in his pockets, his usual easy energy replaced by a heavy, anxious stillness. Dane’s gaze is fixed on Zoe’s IV drip, his jaw tight, as if he’s mentally calculating every drop.
It’s Rett who finally breaks the spell, but even he seems to struggle with it. He takes a half-step back, then stops. “We’ll be in the living room,” he says, the words meant for me, but his eyes are still on her.
He finally turns, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder. The grip is firm, a silent transfer of shared, desperate hope. Then he’s gone, pulling the door almost closed behind him, leaving just a sliver of light from the hallway.
And then it’s just us. Just me and the woman who has somehow become the center of our universe.
She looks so small in the large bed. Dane had brushed her dark hair back from her face, letting it fall in a smooth, dark sweep against the pale white pillows.
The claiming marks on her neck are still visible, but they’ve faded to a dull red, no longer the vibrant, healthy color they should be.
The bond is dying. Our connection to her is slipping away with each passing hour.
“Not if I can help it,” I murmur, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her forehead.
Her skin is still too warm, too dry. Time for another dose of the medication the doctor prescribed.
I measure it carefully into a syringe, then connect it to the IV line in her arm, pushing the plunger with slow, even pressure.
“There you go, carino,” I whisper. “This will help with the fever.”
She doesn’t respond, lost in the deep sleep that has claimed her since we brought her home. But that’s okay. I don’t need her to hear me. I just need her to feel me here, to know on some level that she’s not alone. That she’ll never be alone again, if I have anything to say about it.
I settle back in the chair, picking up a book. It’s one of hers. A comprehensive history of Renaissance art that’s seen better days, its spine cracked and pages dog-eared.
“Let’s see what we have here,” I say, opening to a random page. “Ah, Botticelli. I have a feeling you’d approve.”
I begin to read aloud, keeping my voice low. I’m not an expert on art, not like Zoe is, but I do my best with the pronunciations, stumbling occasionally over the more obscure Italian names.
“‘The Birth of Venus,’“ I read, “‘painted in the mid-1480s, depicts the goddess Venus arriving at the shore after her birth, when she had emerged from the sea fully-grown.’”
I continue reading, the unfamiliar words of art history feeling strange in my mouth at first, then becoming a kind of rhythm. I read about brushstrokes and something called chiaroscuro, about pigments ground from precious stones.
With every page, a new piece of her clicks into place.
I see the passion that drives her, the deep love for beauty and history that is the core of who she is.
And the thought of that fire being dimmed by this fever.
.. it makes me read a little louder, a little steadier, as if my voice alone can keep it burning.
When dinner time approaches, I reluctantly set the book aside.
“I’ll be right back,” I promise, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Just going to get you something to eat.”
In the kitchen, my hands move on their own, a memory passed down from my abuela. I don’t think; I just do. The rhythmic thump of my knife against the cutting board as I mince ginger and garlic. The soft sigh of vegetables hitting hot olive oil in the bottom of the stockpot.
I’m making soup. Not from a can or a box. Real soup.
I sear the chicken, deglaze the pan with white wine, add the water that will become a rich, golden broth.
I move through the motions, my worry and my fear channeled into this simple, honest act.
A pinch of precious saffron threads, staining the broth a beautiful sunrise yellow.
A bright squeeze of lemon. A handful of fresh, chopped cilantro at the very end.
It’s a prayer in a pot. A quiet plea to whatever gods might be listening: Let her be well. Let her be whole.
I ladle the clear broth into a bowl and carry it back to her room. The sight that greets me makes my heart give a hard, hopeful thump against my ribs.
She’s stirring, her head turning slightly on the pillow. The first real movement I’ve seen in hours.
“Zoe?” I set the tray down on the nightstand, perching on the edge of the bed. “Can you hear me?”
Her eyelashes flutter, a small frown creasing her forehead. “Mmm,” she murmurs, the sound barely audible.
“I’m here,” I say, reaching for her hand. It’s still too warm, but her fingers curl weakly around mine, and the gesture feels like a victory. “I brought you some soup. Think you can try a little?”
Her eyes open slightly, just enough for me to see a sliver of brown. They’re glazed with fever, unfocused, but they find my face and linger there.
“Diego?” she whispers, her voice a dry, brittle thing.
“Sí, carino. It’s me.” I help her sit up slightly, arranging pillows behind her back. “Just a little soup, okay? You need strength.”
She nods weakly, her head lolling slightly before she steadies it. I reach for the bowl, filling a spoon with the clear broth.
“Small sips,” I instruct, bringing the spoon to her lips. “Take your time.”
She obeys, opening her mouth just enough for me to slip the spoon between her lips. I watch anxiously as she swallows, relief flooding me when she doesn’t immediately reject it.
“Good?” I ask.
“Good,” she confirms, her voice slightly stronger. “More.”
I feed her spoonful by careful spoonful, my heart swelling with each successful swallow. It’s not much, barely half the bowl before she turns her head away, but it’s something. A sign that she’s fighting.
“Enough,” she murmurs, her eyes drifting closed again. “Tired.”
“Of course,” I say, setting the bowl aside. “Rest now. I’ll be right here.”
I help her settle back against the pillows, tucking the blanket around her. As I move to return to my chair, her hand catches mine, surprising me with its strength.
“Stay,” she whispers, her eyes still closed. “Please.”
The simple request undoes me. I swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise, squeezing her hand gently.
She tugs weakly, pulling me closer. “No,” she mumbles, her voice thick with sleep. “Here. With me.”
My heart stutters. “You want me to lie with you?”
A barely perceptible nod. “Warm.”
I hesitate, not wanting to crowd her or make her uncomfortable. But the plea in her voice is impossible to resist. Carefully, so carefully, I stretch out beside her on top of the covers, maintaining a small space between us.
But Zoe has other ideas. With surprising determination for someone in her condition, she shifts closer, tucking herself against my side. Her head finds a place on my chest, her arm draping weakly across my waist.
“Better,” she sighs, the word a warm breath against my shirt.
I remain frozen for a moment, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. Then, slowly, I let my arm curl around her, my hand settling on the curve of her waist. She makes a small, contented sound, her body relaxing further into mine.
“The marks,” she murmurs, her voice already fading as sleep reclaims her. “They hurt.”
“I know, carino,” I whisper, my lips brushing her hair. “We’re going to fix it. I promise.”
She’s silent for so long, I think she’s fallen asleep. But then, so quietly I almost miss it:
“You’re a good man, Diego.” The words are slurred with exhaustion and fever, but clear enough to lodge directly in my heart. “The best of them.”
Before I can respond, her breathing deepens, her body going slack against mine as sleep claims her once more.
I lie there, stunned. The best of them? Zoe…sees me. Not as the pack’s chef, not as the least dominant alpha, not as the caretaker who fades into the background while his more assertive brothers take the lead. She sees me.
“I love you,” I whisper into her hair, the words I’ve been too afraid to say even to myself coming easily now. “I love you, and I’m going to spend every day making sure you know it.”
She doesn’t respond, lost in her healing sleep. But I swear I feel the tension in her body ease slightly, as if some part of her heard me and believed.
“Te amo, mi corazón,” I whisper, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “And I’m never letting you go again.”