Page 113 of Tricked By Jack

Eve sighs, pushing herself upright against the headboard. “I can sit up on my own, you know.”

“You shouldn’t strain yourself.”

“It’s been a week, Jack.” Her fingers trace the bandage on her shoulder, testing the edges where medical tape meets skin. “I’m not made of glass.”

I take her hand, moving it away from the wound. “Obey the doctor’s orders,” I say, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Please. For me.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t pull away. This is our rhythm now—her pushing, testing boundaries, me drawing her back, keeping her still.

I settle beside her on the bed, reaching for the book on the nightstand. It’s something Carolina brought—a thriller taking place in a mental institution in the forties. Even though Eve loves to point out all the implausibilities, she lets me read it to her.

“Chapter fifteen,” I begin, finding our place from yesterday.

Eve’s head tilts against my shoulder as I read, her body softening into mine by increments. I feel each shift in her posture, each small twitch and sigh. When her breathing deepens, slowing toward sleep, I close the book.

“Don’t stop,” she murmurs, eyes still closed. “I’m listening.”

“You’re sleeping,” I counter, setting the book aside.

Her lips quirk. “Maybe I like falling asleep to your voice.”

Something warm uncoils in my chest at her admission. I lean down, brushing my lips against her forehead. “Later,” I promise. “You need to eat first.”

I retrieve the tray Carolina left outside our door—soup, bread, sliced fruit. Eve’s appetite has been slow to return, each meal a negotiation between us. I sit on the edge of the bed, loading the spoon with broth.

Reaching for the spoon, she protests, “I can feed myself.”

I hold it just out of reach. “Humor me.”

“Then feed me something other than soup,” she whines. “I want cake and butter and chocolate and… fries. I miss fries.”

I chuckle. “Would this be a good time to point out that IknowCarolina is sneaking you daily chocolate bars?”

My beautiful wife averts her gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“How about this,” I suggest. “We’ll compromise. You’ll eat the soup, and I’ll let you have two chocolate bars today.”

Her sigh is theatrical, but she opens her mouth, accepting the soup with a pointed look that says this isn’t over. The spoon slides between her lips, metal against flesh, an intimacy that feelsdeeper than it should. I watch her throat work as she swallows, my own mouth going dry.

“Is this going to be our life now?” she asks after several more spoonfuls. “You feeding me like I’m helpless?”

“Like you’re precious,” I correct, tearing a piece of bread and offering it to her. “Only until I’m sure.”

“Sure of what?” She takes the bread, her fingers brushing mine.

“That I won’t lose you.” The words come out rougher than intended, scraping past the knot in my throat.

Eve’s expression softens, something tender and sharp in her gaze. “Jack,” she says, my name both benediction and chastisement. “You’re not going to lose me.”

I don’t answer. Can’t answer.

The memory of her hanging from that hook, bleeding and broken, is still too fresh. The terror of holding her in the car, feeling her blood seep through my clothes, certain she was slipping away—it haunts my sleep, drives me to check her breathing in the darkest hours.

Instead of telling her that, I finish feeding her in silence, watching with fierce concentration as she takes each bite, as color returns to her cheeks by slow degrees. When she can’t eat any more, I set the tray aside and retrieve the medical supplies Carmichael left for us.

“Time to change your bandages,” I say, gesturing for her to turn, before I quickly snap on a pair of plastic gloves.

Eve complies and shifts onto her side, exposing her back to me, a trust that still steals my breath. I peel away the gauze covering the worst of the lash marks, relief washing through me at the clean, healing lines.