Chapter 47 #3
“No, absolutely not.” I slashed my injured hand through the air and swallowed down the pain that movement caused. “Laoise might’ve been stone mad, but Maeve chose to keep at it after her death. She needs help we can’t provide.”
Liam frowned. “We have her committed?”
“Could work.” Brody’s fingers sprinted in fast taps over his keyboard. “We have some contacts who can help push a mental disorder defense. It’ll cost us, but then we’ll only need to sway a few witnesses our way.”
The door handle clapped down, cutting off our conversation. My body tensed, and Liam sprang from his seat, his hand wrapped around the grip of his gun under his jacket. Brody snapped his laptop shut.
When the door swished open, an orderly pushed in a hospital bed, and I sat up taller. A drowsy Alizé lay within it, and a tightness around my abdomen unfurled. It was one thing to be told she’d made it, another to see it.
“Síbhean,” I whispered, my swallow sticking to my throat.
A light-blue hospital gown hung off her shoulders, displaying fading bruises along her unnaturally pale skin, with her hair unkempt and face bare. It was so unlike how she preferred to be seen in public.
Her head twisted my way with what seemed to be enormous effort.
Dark circles dragged down her normally vibrant eyes.
Small lines cracked through her lips, dull in color, but she tilted them up into a smile that cracked through the vise around my lungs.
I gulped in air like I hadn’t been able to since I first saw the knife aimed at her back.
Soft, breathless laughter huffed out of her. “You’re alive. You made it.”
“For you, I always will.”
Once Brody dragged his chair to the other side of the room, the orderly edged her bed parallel to mine, at least three feet away, and clipped the wheel brakes on. We tried to reach for each other, but our fingers grasped nothing but air.
“Don’t leave me. Ever.” She patted the tops of her tear-stained cheeks with her palms. “I don’t give my permission.”
“Didn’t know I needed that.”
“You do, and I’m not giving it until we’re wrinkly and eighty-five, with walkers and a mouth full of fake teeth.”
I croaked out a chuckle. “That’s some picture you’re painting.”
“We’re going to get going.” Liam hitched his thumb over his shoulder. He grabbed Brody by the bicep, laptop clutched to our middle brother’s chest, and twisted him out of his chair. “Give you two lovebirds some privacy. It was grand to see you, Alizé.”
Brody spun and ducked under Liam’s arm to face my wife, and I shifted on the bed, readying to launch at him if he dared to offend her now of all times.
“Thank you,” he started, a sheepish edge to his voice as his arms tightened around the computer, “for what you did for our brother.”
Her grin was soft but bright. “Anytime.”
“You better fucking not,” I fumed. “You’re not to do that again. Not at the expense of your life.”
In less than three days, she’d already placed herself in the line of fire twice for my benefit. At this rate, she’d be giving me heart attacks bi-weekly.
“So testy,” she teased weakly. “As if you’d be able to stop me.”
I growled low and deep in my throat, the sheets bunched in my good fist. “Try me, wife. You’ll find me extra motivated.”
My brothers slipped past us with quiet steps, and I almost missed their exit.
“Brody,” I called out. “Get it started.”
“Get what started?” Alizé asked.
The answer stuck to my tongue as the door clicked shut with a deafening toll. How did I approach this without hurting her?
“It’s Maeve, isn’t it? Oh no. Please, Cillian.”
The oppressiveness of this issue hung heavy between us. It showed in the tired lines of her face, in the emotion she kept at bay behind the shaky smiles and watery eyes, and in the way she averted her gaze from direct eye contact.
“Please what, love?”
She shimmied her head in quick, furtive movements.
“I don’t…” She faltered. “I don’t know.”
She twisted her fingers together in front of her, and her knuckles bleached of color. The sight of her anguish threatened to spear me to the wall. No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t take away the hurt and confusion Maeve’s betrayal caused her, but I could be there to help soothe the pain.
With effort, I slowly got up and lugged my drained body around the bed, rolling the monitor after me.
It beeped with urgency in protest, mirroring the increasing wobble in my legs with each lumbered step.
I pried her fingers apart and set them over my good hand.
Quickly, pink flushed back into her fingertips.
“Hold me instead. Squeeze me. Let me take your pain.”
“You’re already hurt.”
Like that mattered.
With slow movements, in case she refused, I crawled into bed with her. To my relief, her body immediately found mine. We curled into each other under the rustle of stiff sheets, like every point of contact meant one less vulnerability left exposed.
“Let it out, síbhean,” I whispered. “Rage, cry, scream. I’ll hold you through it all and piece you back together if that’s what you need. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”