Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138642 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 555(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
He must see what’s really on my mind, the worry and pain etched on my face.
“That won’t be your ma. She’s not looking to go anywhere,” Grant promises fervently, as if he has any control over that. “And you’re not there anymore. You aren’t. I get why you left, Philia. I do. But you don’t have to go back to that dark place.”
What else is there?
What else can I do, when I’ve been the Grim Reaper’s errand girl for my entire career?
“I don’t know, Grant. I don’t—”
Anything I wanted to say vanishes as Mason Law’s eyes snap open.
He pulls up as sharply as the strings tethered to my heart.
Even with the doctors and nurses grabbing at him, he sits up like a toy skeleton popping out of a trick coffin, a human jump scare with his throat working around the tube. He reaches out in a trembling, accusing spear.
Pointing right at me.
Oh, God.
His eyes lock on and I freeze.
Heart palpitations shudder through me in a wild rushing mess.
He gags, and Grant peels away from me, striding into the room, his massive bulk radiating pure authority.
“Get that damn thing out of his mouth,” Grant barks. “Let him talk.”
One of the doctors looks up, his face tight. “Captain, he—”
“He might be a goddamned murder victim,” Grant clips. “Whatever he’s got to say, this might be the only chance to find out who the fuck did this to him. Let him talk.”
The doctor gives him an uncertain look, even as the nurses grab Law by the shoulders and wrestle him down.
He’s still staring at me, fighting them with surprising strength.
I duck into the room quickly, stepping closer to the bed.
“Mr. Law?” I say. “Are you all right?”
His eyes roll wildly.
He lets out a choked sound as the doctor eases the tube out of his throat. Law coughs, his entire body convulsing so violently I just want to hold him, my heart wrenching when it looks like he’s about to snap in half.
But as he subsides, his head falls to the side toward me.
More foamy red spit bubbles past his lips as he lets out a wheezing breath. “You y-you’re not... s-safe,” he croaks. “H-have to go. T-take her... take h-her and go. D-don’t don’t... let him h-have her.”
“Who?” I demand, pushing closer to the bed, my heart climbing up my throat. “Ros? My sister? Is Aleksander hurting her?”
He turns paler when he hears 'Aleksander,' his skin bleaching white, but when his lips work open and shut, nothing comes out but strange gurgles.
“Did he do this to you?” Grant asks urgently, looming over the bed. “Do you work for the Arrendells, Mr. Law?”
Law’s head rolls toward Grant.
Law looks up at him with a weariness in his eyes, something I’ve seen far too many times—the glazed exhaustion of someone so sick of fighting their own broken body that they’re ready to give up.
“V-valet,” Law whispers. “F-for for nearly forty years...”
“Mother fucker,” Grant spits. “They lied to me. They fucking lied. Swore they didn’t know him.”
“Please, Mr. Law,” I plead. “Can you tell me if Aleksander Arrendell is hurting my sister? Please, I need to know.”
His head turns weakly toward me again.
But he only lets out a soft, rolling sigh before his eyes slip shut again.
And the monitors hooked up to him go wild as his vitals take a sharp dive.
“He’s crashing!” one of the nurses cries, and suddenly we’re being shoved out of the way, thrust toward the door by the bodies clustering around Law and trying to secure his hold on life. “Everyone who isn’t staff, out. Now!”
Grant and I exit dutifully, regrouping in the hall and watching helplessly.
I don’t realize Grant’s trembling with anger until his hand finds mine, wraps it up tight, seeking as much as giving comfort.
I hold on for dear life.
“I shouldn’t have forced it,” Grant whispers. “Shouldn’t have tried to make him talk in that state.”
“You didn’t do this.” I shake my head. “He was in bad shape, Grant. He’d have hurt himself more trying to fight them to say what he wanted. You helped him.”
“I don’t even know the old bastard.” It comes out rough. The ridges of Grant’s knuckles print hard against my palm. “Hell, half an hour ago, I was ready to throttle him for stalking you. Now, I’d give my left arm to keep him alive.”
“It’s hope. Because there’s already been too much death around here.”
He doesn’t answer.
But that tight grip on my hand never wavers, keeping us locked together.
We stand together for what feels like hours, watching as the doctors get Law settled, bringing his vitals back to a modest baseline.
It’s a good sign.
Anything that could give him those symptoms of organ failure—ricin or otherwise—would be a slow, quiet killer. It’s possible he ingested it days ago and only found himself feeling a little off before it started to really hit.