Chapter 3 - Blood on the White Sheets
Ethan drove without wasting words.
Asher’s car had been attacked near a warehouse he was inspecting.
He was conscious.
He was receiving treatment.
Those were the facts Ethan repeated when I asked questions he couldn’t answer.
At the hospital, a nurse led me through a set of doors.
Asher lay against raised pillows, pale beneath the harsh light. His left shoulder was bandaged. Another dressing disappeared beneath the blanket at his side.
He looked irritated.
Relief hit me so hard I nearly became angry.
“You’re scowling,” I said.
His eyes found me.
“A reassuring sign.”
“What happened?”
“Bad timing.”
“Try again.”
Ethan suddenly became interested in the hallway.
Asher looked away.
I moved closer.
“Somebody shot at your car.”
“Yes.”
“And you thought I would prefer a joke?”
“I thought you’d be frightened.”
“I am frightened.”
His jaw tightened.
I took the hand resting on the blanket.
“You don’t have to make it smaller before you tell me.”
For a moment, his fingers remained still.
Then they closed around mine.
The physician explained what I needed to know. He had been lucky. The injuries required care and observation, but the immediate danger had passed.
Lucky.
I looked at the blood beneath Asher’s fingernails and wondered how low the standard had become.
He remained overnight.
I stayed until visiting hours became an argument he refused to let me win.
“Go home, Audrey.”
“No.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“So are you.”
That ended the discussion.
Ethan found me a chair.
By the following evening, Asher had been discharged with strict instructions, follow-up appointments, and a level of annoyance that reassured everyone except the people responsible for keeping him still.
At the house, he tried to walk toward the west wing.
“No,” I said.
He stopped.
“The guest room beside mine.”
“Audrey.”
“It has fewer stairs from the elevator, the bathroom is easier, and I’m not crossing half the house every time you decide pain is a character defect.”
Ethan coughed into his fist.
Asher looked at him.
Ethan became solemn immediately.
We made it as far as my bedroom before Asher’s face lost its remaining color.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“Lie again and I’ll ask the nurse to move in permanently.”
He sat on the edge of my bed.
A small patch of red had seeped through the dressing beneath his shirt.
I called the number on his discharge paperwork.
A visiting nurse came, checked him, changed the dressing, and repeated instructions while I listened with the concentration I usually reserved for wedding deliveries during thunderstorms.
When she left, Asher looked more tired than I had ever seen him.
“Your sheets,” he said.
“They’re sheets.”
“I’ll replace them.”
“If you offer to reimburse me for laundry, I may smother you with a decorative pillow.”
That earned a faint smile.
I brought his medication, water, and the soup he hadn’t wanted until I held the spoon out.
“I can feed myself.”
“Excellent. Prove it.”
He finished half the bowl.
By midnight, the house had quieted.
He lay above the blankets while I sat beside the bed.
Every few minutes, his eyes drifted closed.
Every few minutes, they opened again.
“You can sleep,” I said.
“I know.”
But his fingers flexed against the mattress.
His gaze kept moving toward the door.
I understood then that exhaustion had never been enough.
Being told he was safe had never been enough either.
I set my hand beside his.
“Would this help?”
He looked at it.
Then at me.
“I don’t know.”
“Then we can find out.”
His hand closed around mine.
At first, his grip was painfully tight.
Gradually, it eased.
His breathing slowed.
I watched the line between his eyebrows soften.
An hour passed.
Then another.
When I tried to shift in the chair, his fingers tightened again.
“Stay,” he whispered.
The word was barely there.
“I’m here.”
For the first time since I had met him, Asher Rowe slept without looking as though some part of him stood guard.
I must have fallen asleep too.
When I woke, afternoon light lay across the bed.
My neck hurt.
My hand was still in his.
Nine hours had passed.
He opened his eyes and looked at me with such unguarded confusion that my heart gave a painful twist.
“Did I sleep?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
I told him.
He stared at the ceiling.
Then he pressed my hand against his chest.
Outside the room, someone knocked softly.
Ethan stood in the hallway.
He looked from me to the sleeping man I had almost lost.
“We found the payment trail,” he said.
I stepped out and closed the door.
“Whose?”
May you like
Ethan hesitated.
“Your father’s.”
