Chapter 18

Chapter

Eighteen

GRACE

Otto doesn't say anything to me after my father walks out of the hospital room. I don't know if it's for my benefit or his own. And I'm too scared to ask. So, instead, I just continue what I've been doing since I walked into this hospital. I take care of him. Because he is my concern, not my father.

I also do this so I can avoid thinking about the inevitable—finances. I'm going to have to figure something out, and soon, to pay my bills. I love working at the salon, but they don't pay me enough to cover my bills. They know it, and they told me ahead of time. But I wasn't in a hurry, not until that conversation with my father.

Now I'm in a rush.

The doctor marches into the room, his iPad in hand, and I watch as he swipes his finger around without saying a single word. Then, after about two minutes of silence, he lifts his head and gives us a quick, tight-lipped smile.

"It looks like surgery went well. You'll be swollen for a bit. About six weeks of recovery, and I want you to see the doctor I'll be referring you to next week. Make that appointment, and he'll take care of the rest of your treatments."

"Do I need to call him?" Otto asks.

The doctor shakes his head, his focus back on the iPad before he answers. "No, his office will get in touch with you tomorrow," he murmurs. "You'll be discharged today. The nurse will give you all your paperwork and care instructions. Do you have anyone to help you and to drive you?" he asks.

"I will," I say before Otto can reply. "I'll be taking care of him, and my car is here to take him home."

The doctor nods a few times, his fingers flying over his screen, and then he tells us good luck and is out of the door. I watch the door close behind him, then shift my attention over to Otto, who is staring at the door as well. His gaze flicks to mine, and he snorts.

"Okay, then."

Smiling, I dip my chin in a single nod. "Yes, okay, then."

About three hours later, we are discharged, with prescriptions in hand, and he is loaded up in the car, ready to go. The first stop I make is the drive-through pharmacy. The second is his place.

The house is empty when we walk inside. I'm not surprised. It's the middle of the day, and they're probably all working out. Otto insists that he doesn't need my help, but I refuse to leave his side. I've been right next to him this entire time. Every minute, except when my father showed up.

I'm not going to stop taking care of him now. He'd have to force me to leave.

Once I've helped him upstairs and got him tucked into bed, the television turned on and some water at his side, I ask him what he wants to eat. I don't know how I'm going to cook it, but I'm going to try, for him.

"I want you to sit down," he grumbles.

Standing at the doorway, I tilt my head to the side and watch him. I'm unsure how I'm going to sit. I don't want to. I need to move. I need to help him. I need to prove that everything my father said was a lie.

Even though I don't know what it is that he's actually said. I can only imagine. And that imagination has run rampant since he walked out of that hospital room. So, I decide that I can just keep busy instead of finding out. But now that he's practically forcing me to stop moving around, I have a feeling we're going to talk about it.

And talking about my father, what he said and what he meant by it all, is something I do not wish to do… ever. I relent and make my way over to the bed. Sinking down on the side, I lace my fingers together, twisting them on my lap.

"Grace," he calls out.

He doesn't continue, so I assume he wants me to lift my head. I do, under my own personal protection. Turning slightly, I look at him. He watches me, his eyes searching my own. I watch as his lips curve up into a smirk.

"If you think I give a goddamn about what your father said, you're wrong," he announces.

"Otto," I whisper. "He has his opinions. But at the same time, I know I'm not perfect."

Otto reaches out for my hand, wrapping his fingers around mine before he squeezes. He clears his throat. My eyes find and connect with his, though I don't know what I'm going to say to him. He watches me for a moment. Then he squeezes my hand again.

"I don't care what he says, Grace. I care about you," he says. Then he adds something to the end that makes me wonder if it's the painkillers talking or him. "Marry me."

OTTO

The words were blurted out, but the sentiment was there. It's what I want. I fell for her the second I met her. The moment she stood outside her father's office before I even knew her name. She's mine, and I'm hers.

My Grace.

"You can't be serious," she whispers. "It's the pain meds," she mumbles. "You won't even remember this tomorrow."

I let out a chuckle but try not to laugh too hard because my face is sore as fuck. Groaning, I squeeze her hand again. I am growing tired, my body heavy as the pain meds that she gave me when we got home begin to work on my aching cheek.

"I will, honey. I'll remember the moment I asked you to marry me."

Blinking, I try to keep my eyes open, but my view becomes smaller and smaller as my lids grow heavier and heavier. Then I feel her lips touch mine right before she speaks.

"I'll give you an answer once you're awake and lucid," she whispers against my mouth.

Then everything goes dark.

I'm not sure when I finally wake up, but when I do, the room is dark. There is a quietness around the bedroom and house. I know it's probably late in the evening. All the men have gone to bed. But then I hear a moan.

Opening an eye, I look toward the sound of the noise and am surprised to see Grace lying against the side of the bed, just like she did at the hospital. Reaching out, I slide my fingers through her hair at the top of her head.

Grace lifts her head, her eyes wild and wide as she looks across the bed at me. "What are you doing down there, honey?" I ask.

"Letting you rest," she rasps.

"Come to bed," I demand.

She frowns, shaking her head a couple of times before she speaks. "You need your medicine. It's time."

"Medicine, then bed, Grace."

She stands and starts to walk toward the bathroom. I listen to her turn on the tap, then the sound of the pill bottles, but there is also a buzzing that comes from the bed where her head had been.

Sitting up, I reach for the rectangle that's making the noise. She doesn't have it password protected, and I know that I shouldn't look. It's not that I don't trust her. It's more that I'm wondering who the fuck would be texting her … I look down at the phone. The time is displayed in big and bold lettering… two thirty in the morning .

What the fuck?

My hesitation is gone. I slide my thumb across the screen and notice a new text on the messaging app. The name is UNKNOWN . But according to the text, it's clear that he knows her. I assume it's a he. There's nobody else who it can be. It's that fuck who stole Grace's work. It's that asshole who called her, the one I had to set straight.

And now he's found a way to contact her even after I blocked his ass.

But as I scroll through the messages, I realize that this has been going on for a few weeks, and there are thousands upon thousands.

UNKNOWN: YOU ARE A WHORE

UNKNOWN: I LAUGHED WHEN I HEARD HE WAS HIT IN THE FACE WITH A PUCK.

UNKNOWN: THE MINUTE YOU'RE ALONE AGAIN I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU BACK.

UNKNOWN: YOU'RE MINE.

A few moments later, she's standing in front of me, pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She gasps at the sight of me holding her phone.

"Is there something you wanted to tell me, Grace?" I ask.

She presses her lips together, shaking her head a couple of times, then I hear her suck in a deep breath before she lets it out slowly. "It's time to take your meds," she whispers.

"Grace," I warn. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She sinks down on the side of the bed, holding out the meds and water for me. I set her phone down on my chest, taking everything from her hands. I pop the pills in my mouth, drink half the contents of the glass, and then set it down on the bedside table before I focus my eyes on hers.

"Grace," I hiss.

"I didn't want to tell you," she whispers. "I didn't want you to know because this was a problem that I created. I thought it was going to go away. I've been ignoring all the texts. I haven't responded. I did this, and maybe this is what I deserve."

"Never," I snap. "What happened was not your fault, and this is not your fault. Why would you think that?" I demand.

Tears well in her eyes. She blinks them away, but I saw them right there on the verge of falling. Reaching out, I cup her cheek. Her eyes slowly close, then she opens them, and they find mine before she speaks.

"I deserve what he's doing because I was stupid enough to allow him into my life."

Her words make my heart ache the moment they reach my ears. "That man is a psycho, and I'm pretty fucking certain he's been stalking you, which nobody deserves. Tomorrow, we go to the cops. Tonight, you crawl into bed with me and get a decent night's rest."

And that is fucking that. I don't take no for an answer, not that I ever would. My woman is going to sleep safely beside me, and that's the best medicine I could ever need.