Chapter 4

"He's dead," Jean-Michel says, hovering near the bed, face a mask of fury.

There's something extremely not fun about having your boss at your bedside while you convalesce, but it bypasses uncomfortable and turns into worry when your boss is a man like Jean-Michel Dubois.

Jean-Michel is the owner of the NHL team that Kingston and Rome—standing behind him, both nodding their agreement, their expressions filled with rage that sends ice collecting on my vertebrae—play for, along with the winery that stretches over the hills in the distance that I work at.

Jean-Michel is smart and ruthless and powerful—an actual billionaire—and…he has a protective streak a mile wide.

Something that's going around this room in spades, considering that Chrissy looks ready to go to battle on my behalf, and the pair of hockey players next to her are prepared to put their fighting skills to work. Even Zeus—the corgi pup that King adopted a few weeks back—appears ready to take up a tiny sword and join in.

The only one who's calm is the doctor that Jean-Michel called in.

She carefully shooed everyone out while she took photographs of my injuries and then doctored my feet which, unfortunately, fared the worst of all my injuries, my heels long gone in my sprint from the winery. The soles are cut—quite deeply in places—and filled with thorns and dirt and rocks. I hadn't even felt them, not after…

Be brave and kind.

I exhale carefully, my father's voice in my head.

Kind isn't super applicable right now—aside from being nice to the people in front of me (and perhaps trying not to let King push my buttons).

But brave is.

I'll be okay.

I've been through…

Enough to know that I'll get through this too.

Even if my freshly cleaned up and glued back together in a few places feet are starting to ache, the pain killer the doctor gave me wearing off…

So. Much. Fun.

I grind my teeth together, wince against the pain that shoots through my bruised jaw, hating that it causes all of the people in the room to look newly ready to commit murder.

Though, still not Dr. Halston.

She just lightly touches my shoulder and places a basket of items on the nightstand. "Put this"—she holds up a glass container, unscrews the top and shows me the same balm she smeared over the bruises on my face and throat and ribs—"on once more tonight and then twice a day until you feel better. There should be plenty of this"—she holds up a couple of rolls of the wrap she used to bind my torso so I can breathe with only a minimal amount of pain—"for you to rewrap each time, but if you run out, just let Mr. Dubois know and I'll drop some by." She holds up a bottle. "Antibiotics. Finish the full course." Another. "For your pain. Don't be a hero," she murmurs, probably seeing my face.

And my intention to skip the heavy narcotics and use something less scary than a substance that'll land me on Criminal Minds.

King takes a step forward. "I'll make sure she takes it."

I narrow my eyes at him.

She gives me a knowing look then pushes upright. "My card is in there as well. Call me if you need anything, or if you feel worse."

"Thank you," I murmur, and genuinely mean it. I can't imagine having to go to the hospital, having to deal with cold, antiseptic walls and a ton of strangers and?—

Well, this is better.

"I'll check in with you in a couple of days." A nod toward my feet. "Stay off those for at least the next twenty-four hours."

"My dogs," I whisper. I made arrangements with my network of fosters for the wedding, for our honeymoon, arrangements that I'll keep. But I'll need to check on them, make sure they're safe, that Phillip didn't?—

"I've got it."

My head whips toward King. He can't even begin to know how to do that, but one look at the determined expression on his face means I don't bother arguing.

I'll figure it out.

Okay.

More likely, he and Chrissy and Rome will figure it out in spite of what I try to do.

I bite back a sigh. "I'll need to get my stuff out of the house too."

"I'll take care of that too," King says softly.

Dangerously.

Stubbornly.

A tone that earns a nod of approval from Dr. Halston as she moves toward Jean-Michel. "It sounds like you all have everything under control," she says. "Let me know if you need me to make a statement to the authorities."

He nods curtly. "I'll walk you out."

"Me too," Kingston mutters.

Rome nods and follows them, and, echoing in from the hall, I hear the good doctor say, "I'll forward you the pictures."

I shiver.

Not wanting to see those photographs.

Ever.

Not wanting to know what I look—or looked—like before Dr. Halston cleaned me up—like. Not wanting to have the image of what Phillip was capable of burned into my mind, not ever, but certainly not when I was bearing the marks of his rage on my skin.

Chrissy moves slowly to the bed, perching on the side like she's worried the wrong jostle of the mattress will send me into debilitating pain.

And I guess that's answer enough for how I look.

Because I sure as shit won't be able to forget Chrissy's expression or the careful way she adjusts her weight.

I force my lips up into a smile, know that it's fake as shit, but also that it's one of the few things that's going to hold me together right now. "Sorry to ruin the party."

Chrissy, a survivor through and through and my best friend, doesn't miss a beat, lips curving as she quips, "I hated the bridesmaid dress anyway."

I release a short laugh that has my ribs protesting. "You picked it out."

"I know." She winks and then any false lightness she'd been allowing me fades. Sighing, she takes my hand, linking our fingers together. "I'm so sorry, babe."

I sigh then wince. Because too deep, too fast, too much hurt. "I…" My eyes sting. "I don't understand. I don't know what happened, how he could do that to me."

A gentle squeeze. "Can I ask a question and have you give me an honest answer?"

That has me going still—or more still, anyway. But my insides don't settle—worry curls in my gut, threatens to climb up the back of my throat. But…this is Chrissy. My friend. My partner in crime. My ride or die.

Only, I'd thought that Phillip was that too.

I sigh again, eyes sliding closed, tears threatening.

"It can wait," she whispers, fingers tightening around mine. "You should just rest, and Rome and I will deal with the venue and?—"

My lids peel back.

The venue. The caterer. The cake. The guests.

"Oh my God," I whisper, that worry turning to panic, all of the planning details I'd fretted over for months exploding in my mind.

So much work.

And all of it to waste.

Chrissy grimaces. "Stupid," she mutters, more to herself than me. "I shouldn't have said anything." She pats my hand, starts to stand. "Rome and I've got this. I promise."

"But—"

"You heard the doctor about your feet," she says, tone fierce. "You're going to stay here safe and sound and recovering, and let us deal with that bastard who—" A muscle in her jaw flexes hard, taking her words with it for a long moment. "I'll make sure the vendors are sorted and the guests know the wedding's off, but I'm bringing the cake back. That was fucking delicious when we did the tasting and no way is that bastard going to get a mouthful of it."

Somehow…I smile.

Then sober.

Because…she's doing too much.

"Chrissy—"

"No," she says, voice going even firmer. "You know that if our roles were reversed, you'd be saying the same damn thing."

"I—"

Her eyes fix on mine, rage burning in the blue depths. "When I saw the mess in the bridal room…" A breath. "When you were just gone…" Another. "I was so fucking worried about you." Her throat works, eyes glassy now, but my friend is fierce as ever when she says, "I'm glad you're okay, but I'm not going to pull my dad and all his resources"—and the billionaire businessman and professional sports team owner has a multitude of them—"back from this. No. Fucking. Way."

"Honey—"

"No," she says vehemently, "I know that you don't see yourself the way I do, don't grasp how fucking wonderful you are?—"

My lungs inflate in a rush, sending pain through my torso in a hot wave.

"—but you are," she says. "Fucking wonderful. And you deserve better than Phillip."

Damn, I love this woman.

"And further that, no one deserves what happened to you. Fucking no one." She touches my cheek. "But least of all you, babe."

I cover her hand with my own. "Thank you," I whisper, feeling the words settle deep inside, knowing they're logically the truth, but also knowing that beneath all of that, so freaking buried that most of the time I forget it's there, those words will just…slide off.

Become meaningless.

Never heal the gulf within.

I ignore that truth and hold my friend's eyes, summon a smile that's not fake this time because I love this woman, know that I'm so damned lucky to have her in my life.

"I was just going to say?—"

Her brows lift, and I know that she's preparing to shut me down if I insist on handling it myself.

I don't.

Because…I don't think I can.

So, I just keep talking.

"—to get the groom's cake too."