Page 14 of Blind Devotion (Letters of Ruin #1)

Scratch. Scratch. I dug my head into the pillow. Too early. A whispered rustle. Some crackling. What was going on?

I gingerly turned onto my side, pausing from the pull on my bullet wound scar, and flattened the pillow over my head with one arm. I groaned. Needed more sleep. After my grueling session with the physical therapist, I wanted to sleep through tomorrow.

Scratch. Scratch. After a third drawn-out scratch, I was done.

My arm flopped to the bed, and the pillow sagged back into place. Man, those sounds were more annoying than the fly that buzzed and buzzed around the room last night.

I sucked in a deep breath, hissing from the ache in my side.

Yesterday, the doctor left me a bottle of pills on the nightstand to take three times a day along with a speaking clock.

I tapped the button on top. Six forty a.m. Time for some low-dosage pain pills.

I popped a set of pills and gently stretched my legs out over the bedside to get up.

Like Dr. Margaux Conde and the physical therapist warned me, everything ached and was sore, but aside from some sharp discomfort in my side, it wasn’t too bad.

Not too shabby for a bullet wound and coma survivor, though per her words, I was lucky.

No organs hit, no heavy bleeds, just a minor infection she was able to treat while I was comatose.

Now it was about giving the wound time to heal and forcing my muscles into action after twenty days in bed.

Maybe it was a blessing in disguise that I didn’t remember what happened to me.

Dr. Conde referred me to a psychologist, but between my physical healing and whatever was going on in this madhouse, addressing my psychogenic amnesia was the least of my worries.

Maybe I wouldn’t even like who I was before.

It only took me three tries to get off the bed. Each attempt tugged at my abdomen and bruised ribs worse than the one before, but I really needed to empty my poor bladder. It was fit to burst at the seams, and I’d rather fall back into a coma than use the bedpan.

I whimpered and moaned through the pain.

I huffed and groaned, but I did it. I got up and out all on my lonesome.

I was a strong and capable woman. My eyesight didn’t define that, nor did my lack of memories.

If I had to survive on my own, I would manage, no matter what Alizé or her brother thought.

My legs burned and shook from carrying my weight, but holding the IV pole helped a little. I shuffled my way across the room as the doctor showed me yesterday after removing the catheter.

God, my body hurt. Everything throbbed. My head pulsed and protested the movement with a bout of dizziness. My ribs burned with every inhale, and my legs and side screeched if my pace was more than a footstep every five seconds.

Something creaked to my right, and I snapped my head that way. Unease sent cold shivers down my spine. It’s okay, Tessa. Be strong. I lifted my chin and steeled my voice.

“Who’s there?”

No answer in English, French, Italian, or otherwise. No surprise there.

That was when I picked up a hint of cologne. His cologne. Now I could feel his eyes on me.

Lovely, round two then.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Quiet. “How long have you been watching me?”

The rustling, crackling, and scratching picked back up. “Long enough.”

Those two words in English were enough to ramp up the tension a hundredfold while making me feel like he’d wrapped me in a protective cocoon at the same time.

If our interaction the day before was anything to go by, that was laughable.

His presence was so oppressive, I couldn’t believe I’d missed him before.

“Enjoy the show?”

“You did look rather ridiculous getting up.”

Was that me, or did I catch an edge of humor in his tone? Nope, definitely had to be my imagination. This man didn’t seem to be the type to have even the smallest laugh lines.

“You couldn’t have helped me?”

“You didn’t want my help.”

Right. My cheeks heated. Yesterday, I hated having to rely on the nurses and maids to help me up when I pushed the call button because I was too weak.

I didn’t think I’d ever live it down if I asked for help from the man who attacked me.

It was bad enough he got to witness my floundering and squirming like a fish out of water, but now he also called me out on my small triumph.

“You’re not very aware when you sleep,” he said softly, though his voice was so gruff and deep, it sounded more like a threat than a simple statement.

“I doubt many people are.”

“I am.”

Again, not surprising. He probably believed everyone was out to get him.

“It leaves you vulnerable,” he added.

“Ah. This your way of telling me that trying to choke me to death yesterday wasn’t a one-off?”

“I had a hunting knife at your throat. You never even noticed.”

Jesus, this guy was certifiable. I had to stop my hand from reflexively reaching for my throat. I was still alive. I was going to take that as a win. “Not sure you’re going to kill me?”

“I’m weighing the pros and cons.”

I chewed on the corner of my lower lip and nodded. I couldn’t explain why that word hurt, but it did.

“Why?”

He didn’t say anything for a few beats, and when he did, it sounded far too casual. “Not sure about the mess.”

“I meant—You know what? Never mind.” Why do you want to kill me ? I almost asked, but maybe that just made me sound a tad too desperate. I faked a yawn. “It’s too early for this conversation. How about you really think about it and decide after I get out of the bathroom, okay?”

I was a flipping idiot, memories or not.

What was it about me that he so inherently hated when everything about him drew me in?

His scent. His voice. His presence. The care he’d shown me on his boat.

The ice chips he’d given me for my throat.

Except then he ruined the slightest bit of comfort I felt with his threats and general assholery.

That was more aggravating than the constant itchiness around the scar on my temple.

I lumbered ahead, arms extended, feet prodding forward before every step. My foot caught on the edge of a furniture leg, and I tripped, stumbling a few steps before catching myself against the wall. Sudden throbbing pain radiated from my side, and I hissed air through my clenched teeth.

His chair creaked, then an arm wrapped around my waist, forcing my back straight to avoid touching his front. His hand settled on my left hip, far enough below the healing gunshot wound that it had to be intentional. His breath feathered against my nape.

“Careful. Or you’ll do the job for me.”

“Better for you, no?” I hated how weak I sounded. “Why do you hate me so much? What have I ever done to you?”

“It’s not personal.”

“It feels pretty personal to me.”

I twisted myself out of his arm and made for the bathroom. With a relieved bladder and a few fresh splashes of water on my lower face to avoid the eye dressings, my pulse steadied. I was alive. I was healing, and I was going to figure all this out. There was no other choice.

He remained in his chair when I came out, quiet and unassuming, if not for those bothersome scratching noises.

I wasn’t quite sure whether I was disappointed or not by his presence.

At the very least, he was company. Aside from a couple of short visits from Dr. Conde, the physical therapist, and the nurse, I had been nothing but alone in a place I didn’t know, with little to think about except for my memories of the boats and my time at sea.

As I stood in the bathroom doorway, I debated what to do.

If I followed the right wall, I would eventually reach the bed—the same bed I had lain in for the last twenty-one days, counting today.

The same, relatively safe spot I had barely left since I woke up from my coma.

I didn’t want to go back just yet. It meant peace and solitude, but it also meant boredom.

There were only so many times I could count to one hundred or tap against the bed and furniture in any semblance of music before I went stir-crazy.

That reminded me of Alizé’s demand. At the very least, attempting to seduce him would be a distraction. It couldn’t be any worse than him threatening to kill me.

“What exactly are you doing?” I asked.

Gripping my aching side, I fumbled my way to a round wooden table surrounded by two leather sofa chairs. One empty and one occupied by him and his large feet, if the feel of his long moccasins against my bare feet was anything to go by.

“Move. I’d rather not have the imprint of your toes on my shoes.”

Jerk.

“You’re a big ol’ grump, you know that?”

I stepped back until my calves hit the second chair and gingerly lowered myself into it. A sigh of relief escaped me from the release of pressure.

Something rustled right next to me, followed by a few crackles, and then that miserable scratching took over. I couldn’t resist. My hand shot out and met…paper? That was what he was doing all this time? Folding paper?

A heavy thunk vibrated through the table. Curious, my fingers explored, coming up against something sharp. A knife’s blade. I hissed and pulled my fingers back, sucking on a small cut on my fingertip. He’d stabbed a knife into the table.

“Don’t touch.”

He sounded so growly and irritated as if I had inconvenienced him. I chuckled softly at first, then harder and louder, pressing my wrapped wrist to my throbbing side.

“You done?”

“I’m sorry.” I huffed between laughs. “It’s not that funny, I swear.”

“It’s not.”

I imagined him shuffling his weight around as he said that with absolute seriousness, swishing his fists back and forth menacingly. I cackled, and it hurt so freaking bad, but I couldn’t help it.

“You’re very strange.”