Her voice dripped with her utter delight. "I need to meet this girl. I can already tell I'll LOVE her."
She paused for a moment, then delicately, "So, are you going to do some demonstrations with her?"
I blanched. "No. No. No. Never."
"Will you be bringing her to the fetish parties?"
"No. Those days are over for me. What I have with Bianca . . . it's not something I can share. I have to keep it private. Anything else would drive me mad."
"I get it. Totally understandable. I'm so happy for you."
I was smiling when we ended the call.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MY HELPLESSNESS
PRESENT
Finally, after agonizing, waiting, remembering, Bianca came to with a violent jerk, her eyes snapping open.
A great shudder rocked through my body, and I had to look down at our joined hands for a moment to stay composed. It wouldn't do to break down in front of her just then.
A relief like nothing I'd ever known flowed through me, top to bottom, like cold water, raising every hair on my body.
She was awake. She was alive. We were actually going to survive this.
All those hours, and she hadn't even been resting.
She'd been waiting, it seemed, her own bloody visions keeping hold of her, because the second she spoke, she said, "Stephan?" A world of pain and fear in her voice.
I gasped when I finally found the courage, the composure to look at her again. Into those beloved eyes I never thought would look at me again.
She knew. She knew he was grievously injured. That fast, and she remembered.
"He's recovering from surgery."
She processed that for just a moment before asking, "How badly was he hurt?" It sounded like she was talking around a mouth full of marbles. I flinched, imagining the damage that had been done to the inside of her mouth. "Will he be okay? I need to see him now."
Unbelievably, her words were accompanied by her trying to sit up.
I chose my words carefully, wondering how to get her to stop moving so much. It couldn't be good for her. "He's in the ICU. He was badly hurt. No one can see him—"
My body seized up in shock as her hand shot to her arm and brutally ripped out her IV.
I started shaking. I couldn't seem to breathe. How could I stop her from hurting herself? I could only watch her, feeling helpless and futile.
She sat up. "I need to see him now," she said vehemently.
Two nurses had been hovering near enough to hear what was going on, and they snapped into action, wrestling her back down, two more nurses and a doctor joining in before they could get her IV back in.
She met my eyes as the nurse worked on her arm. "Please, James. I have to see him."
Eventually I nodded, not knowing what else to do. "Please don't do that again. I'll arrange for you to see him, but you must stay in your bed."
She nodded, shutting her eyes, her tense body finally relaxing back into the hospital bed.
Arrangements were made, and I walked with her as they wheeled her bed to his.
She calmed after she saw him, though he was still unconscious.
But sure enough, less than two hours later, he roused for the first time since the shooting.
I told her the second she woke up. His vitals were improving. They were both going to live.
Miracle on miracle. After all that had happened, I couldn't believe our good fortune.
I made a vow then and there never to take even one single second of our life together for granted.
"Have they buried my father?" she asked the next day.
"Not yet, I don't believe," I answered, studying her face, trying to figure out why she wanted to know. "They will in the next day or so. Is there anything you'd like me to do?"
"Could you please get me a pen and paper?"
I had it fetched, watching in puzzlement as she scribbled a few sentences on the paper, then folded it carefully and handed it to me.
"Could you please have that buried with him?"
"Yes of course." I recalled a rather important detail. "He's actually being cremated, unless you object."
"No, that's fine. Have it burned with him please."
I agreed, still watching her blank face. "May I read it?"
"Go ahead." No hesitation in her answer.
I opened the neatly folded letter, brows rising as I read the brief scrawl.
To the monster,
Fuck you. You can't hurt us anymore. Oblivion is too good for you. Enjoy the fire. You've earned it.
Your daughter
I looked up, caught her eye.
She gave me a rueful smile. "It's therapeutic."
I smiled wryly, refolding the paper. "Indeed it is. Do you have any desire to . . . go to his funeral?"
She shot me a look. "No. Never. It's bad luck to spit on someone's grave, and I'm not sure I could stop myself."
CHAPTER EIGHT
WORST NIGHTMARE
PRESENT
STEPHAN
I awoke to bright lights and hospital sounds. And pain. Agony shooting through me with every breath.
It all came back to me in a flood.
The blood. The bodies. The unmitigated horror of it.