Page 153 of Captive Audience

Rook wheeledme out of the elevator and into the quiet apartment, his mood impossible to read. I’d told myself he’d been on edge at the hospital because of doctors, nurses, and strangers he’d sworn made it unsafe. But now that we were home, tension still clung to him.

The ride here had been silent apart from Rook’s sharp barks at the driver whenever a bump on the road had caused me to wince.

When he pushed me down a hallway I’d rarely used, my brow furrowed. “Where are you taking me?”

“Your room.”

Except there was only one bedroom down here. Niall’s.

He guided the wheelchair inside. The room smelled faintly of spray cleaner and fresh linen. The furniture had been dusted, and a hospital-style bed sat where the old one had been. A huge arrangement of dahlias and lilies were perched atop the chest of drawers, next to the photo of Rook and Niall in boxing gloves.

I turned the chair to face him. “Why are you putting me in here?”

Rook blinked. “So you can have your own space while you recover.”

“I don’t need space.”

“It’s easier this way.”

“Easier for whom?”

His gaze remained locked on mine, but he didn’t answer. Swear to God, if he gave me one more vague excuse, I’d scream.

He cleared his throat. “Let’s get you settled in.”

“No. Tell me why I’m being punished.”

“You’re not being punished.”

“Then why are you punishing yourself? I know you don’t want this.”

His lips formed a thin line. “You almost died because of me, Asha.”

“No.” I slammed my fists on the armrests. “I almost died because of a psychotic Russian and his swarm of goons. You didn’t order them to hurt me, so stop pinning this on yourself.”

“That’s a load of shite, and you know it. If I hadn’t dragged you into this mess, you never would’ve been taken in the first place.”

There was truth to that, but it didn’t make my injuries his fault.

My shoulders sagged. “I just want things to go back to the way they were.”

I didn’t have the strength for a battle. The short trip from the hospital had drained me. Every muscle was sore, and my side was on fire. Frustration mixed with exhaustion until all I could muster was a weary sigh. “Fine. If you need time, take it. Let me know when you’re done blaming yourself. I need to rest.”

Rook eased me onto the bed. Pain flared through my stomach, and he grimaced as though he felt it himself.

He reached for the pillows, but I held up my hand. “Leave it.”

He nodded and stepped back. “I’ll be in my study. Text me if you need anything.” He turned and left without another word.

I let him go, because pushing now would only drive him deeper into his funk. Rook was stubborn as hell, but he would come around. He had to.

59

ASHA

The doctor visited every morning; the nurse, every evening. Between them, they poked, prodded, changed dressings, and gave Rook strict instructions on what I could and couldn’t do.

Despite shrouding himself in guilt, my gangster was the perfect caregiver. He fed me, bathed me, and fussed over me relentlessly. He poured water before my glass was half empty. He scheduled my meds to the minute. He made sure I had books, magazines, movies, and puzzles stacked within an arm’s reach. He even warmed blankets in the dryer before tucking them around me.