Chapter 92
I slid back into the car, placing the enormous bouquet of red roses on the passenger seat. The overwhelming floral scent filled the space, sweet and heavy–almost too much.
Finished
I glanced at the flowers, imagining the look on Riley’s face when she saw them. Maybe she’d freeze, startled. Maybe her eyes would well up with tears, her lips would tremble, and she’d finally realize I wasn’t such a bastard after all.
A smirk tugged at my lips.
Yeah, right.
I pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward Mooncrest Second Hospital. I wasn’t on staff there, but I’d dropped by enough for research collaboration that most of the nurses knew me. Can’t say it hurt that I’m easy on the eyes–people tend to remember that.
The moment I stepped into the lobby with a massive bouquet of crimson roses in hand, every nurse at the station turned to stare, eyes wide and brimming with curiosity. The air was practically vibrating with gossip.
“Dr. Hale, bringing flowers for a patient?” one nurse teased, grinning like she’d just caught a live soap opera.
I gave her my trademark half–smile. “Yeah. For someone very sick. In the head.”
She laughed, probably thought I was joking.
I approached the desk. “I’m looking for someone–Riley Vale. She should’ve been admitted recently.”
The nurse blinked, then nodded. “Room 312, third floor.”
She didn’t say more, but I caught the glint in her eyes. Riley must’ve left an impression–and not just because of her injuries.
As I made my way to the room, I couldn’t shake the feeling gnawing at my gut. Last time I saw her, she was barely hanging on. If anything happened again…
I pushed the door open, expecting to see her lying in bed–pale, weak, maybe asleep.
But the room was empty.
My heart stuttered.
Had she run away again?
Then came the sound of water flushing. A second later, the bathroom door opened, and she stepped out, dressed in hospital scrubs.
She froze.
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Her face went stark white, panic flaring in her eyes. And then–just like that–she turned and bolted.
Hell no.
I tossed the bouquet onto the bed and lunged forward, grabbing her wrist before she could get far. “What the hell, Riley? You act like I’m here to drag you off to the dungeons.”
“Let me go!” she cried, struggling against me. Her voice trembled with fear. “Did the Ebonclaw Pack send you? Did my father-?”
I let go immediately, stunned by the sheer terror in her voice.
“No. I’m not here on anyone’s orders,” I said, trying to sound calm, reasonable. “I just… wanted to see if you were okay.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe that? You’ve always taken their side. You all want me gone.”
Gods.
I sighed and grabbed the bouquet from the bed, shoving it at her. “Would I have brought you flowers if I wanted you dead? Seriously, do you even hear yourself?”
She flinched as the weight of the bouquet landed in her arms. Ninety–nine blood–red roses. A romantic gesture, completely inappropriate for someone recovering from a trauma–induced collapse.
Her hands trembled. And then, to my absolute horror–she started crying.
“What now?” I snapped, voice harsher than I intended. “Is it the roses? You don’t like red? Say something, damn it, don’t just cry.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, frustration bubbling. “Fine. Tell me what kind of flowers you like, I’ll buy them. I’ll buy a damn greenhouse if that’s what it takes to get you to stop looking at me like I kicked your puppy.”
I reached forward, intending to take the bouquet from her and chuck it in the trash–maybe I could salvage a shred of dignity.
Then the door creaked open behind me.
“I seem to have come at the wrong time.”
I turned.
The man who entered the room was tall, with a rigid posture and a glacial expression. He wore a custom- tailored suit like it was part of his skin, and those gold–rimmed glasses perched on his nose did nothing to soften the storm in his eyes.
“Who are you?” I asked, tone defensive.
He ignored me.
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His eyes were locked on Riley, or more precisely–on the bundle of roses she still cradled like a shield. His gaze darkened slightly as he stepped forward and, without a word, took the bouquet from her arms and placed it neatly on the table beside her bed.
Then, with a gentle tone that made my skin crawl, he said, “You must be hungry. My grandmother made this herself.”
He opened a polished thermos and began arranging food on the tray table like this was his damn kitchen.
I stood there, feeling like a third wheel to my own intentions.
Who the hell was this guy to waltz in here, steal the scene, and act like Riley was his mate?
I glanced at Riley, waiting to see if she’d protest. She didn’t. She looked stunned. Caught between us like prey between two predators.
“Riley,” I said, sharper than I meant to, “I came to see how you were doing. That’s all.”
She blinked at me. “Why? What do you want?”
The coldness in her tone hit harder than I expected.
I was here with roses. She looked at me like I’d brought a weapon.
I clenched my jaw, masking the sting. “So now I can’t visit without an agenda? Great.”
The man remained silent, but I could feel his gaze pressing down on me like a silent threat.
I didn’t like him.
And I didn’t like how Riley looked at him either–like she didn’t know whether to be afraid or grateful.
But I wasn’t going anywhere.