Page 97 of Phantasm

I smile weakly. Sinclair swipes his suit jacket from the armchair on Darian’s other side and shrugs it on, his tie askew. “I trust you’re not a flight risk, Mrs. Delacroix.”

My eyes roll even as my lips twitch. “Not until I know he’s safe.”

Sinclair walks around to my side and puts his big hand on my shoulder, squeezing tight. “Give me a call if you want a break. Your husband would want you to sleep.”

“Go home, Sinclair.”

With a final squeeze, he leaves the room, and the tears I couldn’t let fall while he was in here finally spill over. I reach for Darian’s hand and bring it to my lips once more, kissing his palm. My heart throbs against my bruised ribs, my eyes drifting to the feeding tube and the wires attached to him. I hate anyone seeing him this vulnerable and unable to defend himself.

“I love you, Darian Delacroix,” I whisper as I place his palm against my cheek, leaning into his touch, noting the bruises on his cheeks. “I should have told you sooner.”

“Darian?” A squeeze of my hand.

I feel like I’m being pulled out of a cold lake, drifting higher and higher through murky water.

I finally resurface, blinking against blinding brightness while a doctor shines a light in my eyes. “Welcome back, Darian,” he says, pocketing his flashlight and smiling at someone in the room.

My mouth feels scratchy and dry like a desert. No amount of swallowing helps. An incessant beeping noise filters in and out of my consciousness. I try to lift my head, but someone shushes me and says, “You need to take it easy, honey.”

“Honey?”

Through my haze, I recognize Sinclair’s amused baritone.

“What am I supposed to call him? Asshat?” a female voice snaps.

I know that voice. It’s the voice of an angel. Fuck. What kind of drugs did they give me?

“Darian, baby, can you hear me?”

I roll my head on the pillow, trying to adjust to the bright lights.

Soft fingers stroke my cheek, while the most entrancing, expressive eyes I’ve ever seen gaze down at me. I pause as I notice my heart rate picking up on the monitor. “Cecilia?”

“Hi, honey.”

Sinclair snickers, and she shoots him a brief glare before her green eyes capture me again and soften. Leaning down, she presses her forehead to mine. “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” I croak, reaching up to stroke my fingers through her cascading locks. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

She eases back and studies my face. “I’m better now.”

I turn my head to see Sinclair watching us with an unreadable expression. He notices me looking, and I raise my fist for us to do our secret handshake we used to do as kids.

Chuckling, he bumps his knuckles to mine one last time. “You gave us a fright. You know you can’t die on us, right? No way in hell am I looking after your feisty wife. My home already resembles a botanical garden or a damn jungle. The last pussy I brought home asked me if I was intoTarzancosplay.”

“Let me guess, you rolled with it?”

“Hell yes, you think I’m going to turn down an opportunity like that? I had a fake vine installed on the roof and everything. You should have seen her swinging in her little leopard bikini.”

“Gross,” Cecilia mutters, but she’s smiling, and it’s the most beautiful smile. In fact, my gaze lingers on her mouth long after she stops.

“Of course I wasn’t so lucky,” Sinclair grumbles. “When I tried to swing, it snapped, and I almost broke my tailbone.”

“That explains why you couldn’t sit comfortably for a week,” I say, laughing despite my sore throat, and we share a smile before he clears his throat and jerks his thumb toward the door. “I’ll go speak to the doctor and get us drinks.”

Cecilia wipes tears from her cheeks as he walks out, hoping I won’t catch her crying. I reach for her small hand, interlacing my fingers with hers. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“No…” She shakes her head. “You have nothing to apologize for.”