Chapter 8 - The Return of the King
Silence descended once again over the medical suite, broken only by the steady beep of the heart monitor.
Willa let out a long, shuddering breath, her knees suddenly feeling weak. The adrenaline crash hit her all at once, and she lowered the gun, setting it carefully on the bedside table. She slumped back into the armchair, burying her face in her hands as the exhaustion caught up with her.
“We did it,” she whispered to the empty room.
A sudden, sharp sound made her head snap up.
Tap. Tap.
Willa froze. She looked down at the bed.
Everett Kane’s hand—the one resting motionless over the blanket—was no longer still. His fingers were curled into a tight fist, and as she watched in breathless awe, his eyes slowly, laboriously fluttered open.
The piercing gray gaze that had once made boardrooms tremble and rivals back away in fear locked onto her face.
The mechanical beep of the heart monitor suddenly accelerated, its rhythm shifting into a powerful, steady, living cadence.
Everett swallowed hard, his throat dry from months of chemical prison, but his voice, though rough and gravelly like grinding stones, cut through the quiet room with unmistakable authority.
May you like
“Willa,” he rasped, his lips curving into a fierce, unmistakable smirk. “You missed a spot on Whitfield.”
Willa stared at him, tears of overwhelming relief finally spilling over her lashes, and for the first time in three years, she smiled.
