Chapter 3 - The First Secret|
Sophia woke to a steady electronic beep and the sensation that someone had replaced her shoulder with a block of burning stone.
She opened her eyes.
The ceiling was white. The room smelled of antiseptic. A nurse stood near the monitor, checking the numbers on the screen.
Sophia tried to move.
Pain shot through her shoulder.
“Oh, no,” the nurse said gently. “Don't try to sit up yet.”
“What happened?”
“You were shot. You've had surgery.”
Sophia stared at her.
“Shot?”
“Yes. You're at St. Catherine's Medical Center. You're safe here.”
The memory returned in fragments: sleet, headlights, Declan's voice, the pavement rushing toward her.
She swallowed.
“Declan?”
The nurse glanced toward the chair beside the bed.
He was there.
He had fallen asleep sitting upright, one hand still wrapped around hers. His dark hair was disheveled, his shirt wrinkled, and a shadow covered his jaw. The man who never appeared anywhere without looking immaculate seemed to have forgotten the existence of mirrors.
Sophia moved her fingers.
Declan woke instantly.
His eyes opened, then fixed on her face.
For several seconds, he didn't speak.
Then he leaned forward.
“Sophia.”
His voice cracked.
She managed a faint smile.
“You look terrible.”
A broken laugh escaped him. He bent over her hand, pressing it against his forehead.
“Don't ever do that again.”
“Get shot?”
“Leave me sitting in a hospital waiting room wondering if you're alive.”
Sophia's smile faded.
“What happened?”
“The bullet was meant for me.”
She looked at him carefully.
“You don't know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“How?”
“Because I watched the gunman aim at me.”
She tried to process the answer, but the pain medication made every thought feel slow.
“Did they catch him?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you should stop making promises to hospital furniture and go find him.”
Declan stared at her.
“You almost died.”
“I gathered that from the very expensive ceiling.”
“Your heart stopped.”
The humor vanished from her face.
“What?”
“For a short time. The doctors couldn't find a pulse. They brought you back.”
Sophia turned her eyes toward the window.
She had never considered death in any practical way. It belonged to old people, news stories, and the occasional customer who came into the shop wearing black because someone they loved had died.
She had never imagined herself disappearing on a wet Chicago sidewalk.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
Declan's expression tightened.
“Don't apologize.”
“I made you worry.”
“You were bleeding on the street, Sophia. Worry was the least of it.”
She looked back at him.
His eyes were red.
“Were you crying?”
He glanced away.
“No.”
“You were.”
“I was exhausted.”
“You're a terrible liar.”
He almost smiled.
Then he carefully settled her hand back onto the blanket.
“Rest. The doctor said you need time.”
Sophia studied him. His concern was genuine, but there was something else beneath it—something raw and frightened that she had never seen.
“Why are you still here?”
His eyes returned to hers.
“Because you are.”
It was not an answer to the question she had meant to ask.
Or perhaps it was.
Before she could respond, Dr. Foster entered and checked Sophia's vital signs. She explained that the surgery had gone well, but Sophia would need close monitoring. The bullet had damaged tissue and a blood vessel, and the doctors would be watching for infection, complications, and weakness in her arm.
Declan listened to every word.
When the doctor asked whether Sophia had any allergies, he answered that he didn't know.
Sophia gave a faint laugh.
“He knows the measurements of every suit he owns, but not whether I can eat strawberries.”
“I've never offered you strawberries.”
“You offered me a dessert last Christmas.”
“It was chocolate.”
“It had strawberry sauce.”
Declan looked genuinely troubled.
“You didn't eat it?”
“I gave it to Marcus.”
The nurse smiled.
For a moment, the room felt almost ordinary.
Then Dr. Foster asked Sophia whether she remembered the shooting clearly enough to describe what happened.
Sophia recalled the sedan and the flash of light.
But she remembered something else, too.
Just before the shot, she had seen the passenger turn his head.
He wasn't looking at Declan.
He was looking directly at her.
And as the doctor wrote down the detail, Sophia remembered the small silver ring on his hand.
A ring engraved with a black wolf.
Declan saw her expression change.
“What is it?”
She looked at him.
“The man who shot me wasn't watching you.”
May you like
Declan went still.
“He was watching me.”
