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Two weeks later
Rolling over onto my side, I stared at the empty space next to me in bed. My hand skimmed across the cold sheets, but my otter wasn’t there to hold it. Without him, I was adrift once more.
After a moment, I pulled Leander’s pillow closer and inhaled his scent. It wasn’t the same thing. It wasn’t even close. On top of that, it felt wrong — beingalonein bed with only a lumpy pillow and faded cologne for comfort. I would have even taken that damn cat at the moment, allergies and all.
Seconds, or hours, later, I swatted Leander’s pillow off of me and threw back the sheets. I couldn’t take it anymore. The silence. The emptiness. I needed him like I needed air and right now I was suffocating.
I trudged down the hallway and down the circular stone staircase. Padding toward the living room, I lingered at the threshold as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, courtesy of the moon over the water.
Leander was asleep on the couch, his bare chest rising and falling rhythmically. One hand rested on the large bandage across his abdomen, while the other dangled off the cushion. A book was laying on the floor beneath it.
Making my way over to him, I knelt on the floor and set the book on the coffee table. Like a creeper, I propped my elbow on the edge of the couch and held my head, watching him sleep. I’d come so close to losing him for good that I needed continual reassurance he was fine, even if that meant watching over him like a teenage vampire in the middle of the night.
All I could say was thank God for Molly O’Brien. Of all my mob connections, she soared to the top of my Christmas list for the rest of her life.
A bonafide trauma surgeon by day, she helped out the Chicago mobsters on the side as needed. She was kind enough to stitch up my arm after my insane declaration of love and she’d been a fucking godsend from the moment she stepped into my apartment and saw Leander bleeding out on the floor. Between a field transfusion and suturing all of his stab wounds back together, she managed to pull Leander back from the brink of death. Again.
“He’s lucky,” she said, slapping a bandaid on my arm from the needle stick. “They didn’t hit any major organs. I gave him antibiotics to be on the safe side and enough pain killers that he’ll probably be asleep for the next couple days.”
Lucky. Yeah. That’s not what I’d call being stabbed by my husband five times, but I saw her point.
He accused me of being a lunatic, yethewas the one who devised the horrible plan to play possum. I didn’t want to, clearly, but he insisted through all of his little quotes — a language in and of itself to anyone who knew him. As much as I hated it, there really was no other option and we both knew it.
Going low and slow, as it were, I’d hoped the knife would slip between his intestines without doing permanent damage. The trade off, however, was ten times the pain. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make because when it came to revenge nothing deterred Leander Welles, not even his own mortality.
The wind shifted off the sea, breezing through the balcony doors. A damp chill rolled through the room. I hopped to my feet and hurried over, securing them against the cold.
By the time I returned to Leander’s side, he was awake, pulling a blanket off the back of the couch to cover himself.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice husky from sleep.
“Watching over you.”
“Again?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” I snagged an extra pillow on my way by the overstuffed chair and resumed my spot on the hard tile.
He gave me a small smile. “You say that every night.”
“Because it’s true. I don’t know why you won’t let me bring the bed down here.”
“Doctor’s orders. Besides, I’ll be able to use the stairs soon enough.” He ran his fingers through my hair, brushing it away from my face.
“Or I can just carry you upstairs.” I waggled my brows at him.
He smirked, stifling a chuckle. “Thatgoes against doctor’s orders too.”
“Does it? I didn’t hear her say that...” I slid my hand under the blanket, running my fingers up and down his leg.
“She said no undue exertion.” He gave me a warning look. “You’re lucky she even agreed to let me fly in my condition.”
“But the Mediterranean is where people come to convalesce.” I blinked innocently at him while my fingers walked up the inside of his thigh. “That’s what we’re doing. Convalescing.”
“And here I thought it was to avoid the inquiries into Gianna Scardato’s death.”
I feigned offense. “I would never purposely avoid the FBI. And even if I was, I wouldn’t come to Malta. They have an extradition treaty.”
He shot me a look.
