Page 67 of Hunted to the Altar

But the grief was enormous.

My baby was gone.

And so was whatever hope I’d had.

I turned my head slowly. The movement hurt.

Samuel was in the corner of the room.

Still in the same shirt. Wrinkled. Stained with my blood. His jacket was draped over the back of the chair. His tie was on the floor, abandoned. His hands were clasped between his knees. His head was bowed. He hadn’t moved in what looked like hours.

I almost wished he would cry.

But of course he didn’t.

Samuel didn’t cry.

He bled through other people.

I looked away, the tears silently falling down my cheeks into the pillow.

There was nothing to say.

I didn’t want his voice.

I didn’t want his comfort.

I didn’t want him.

He didn’t realize I was awake until the nurse came in, her footsteps soft against the tile.

“She’s awake.”

Samuel jolted up like someone had punched him in the chest. He crossed the room in two long strides and stopped by the edge of my bed.

"Nina," he said, voice gravel and ruin.

I kept staring at the ceiling.

"I need to—" he started, but the nurse cut him off.

“Not now.”

The nurse checked my vitals. Adjusted the IV. Asked me how I felt.

I didn’t answer.

Not because I couldn’t. Because I wouldn’t.

Samuel waited until we were alone again. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

I turned my face away.

“I never meant for this to happen.”

Another silence.

“I just wanted you safe.”