"—is hiding a secret from me, and I’ve just been shot."
He rises to his feet and sways. I grip the arm attached to his uninjured shoulder. "We need to get you to a hospital."
"Fuck that."
"The wound can still get infected, and all I have done is patch you up temporarily, at best. Maybe I should find my way to the chalet and get help?"
"I’ll be fine," he snaps. "Just help me to bed, will you?"
39
Aurora
He’s not fine; he’s not doing well at all. Outside, it begins to snow as I dip the cloth in cool water and place it on his fevered brow. Sweat clings to his upper lip and coats his chest. He stirs restlessly, his eyeballs moving behind closed eyelids.
I helped him to bed, where he collapsed and fell asleep almost instantly. That was two hours ago. The blood loss must have weakened him more than he’d been letting on. I managed to throw my clothes into the dryer, pull on my bathrobe, then build up the fire in the living room. It is warm inside the house, but you wouldn’t be able to tell from the way he shivers under the covers that I pulled up to his neck.
There are no antibiotics in the house that I can give him, and stitching up the wound, clearly, isn’t enough. The infection is mounting, damn it. I pace the floor next to the bed and watch his ragged breathing. I need to do something, but what? I chew on my fingernail. Do I dare leave him and try to find my way back to the main chalet?
He groans, and my breath catches in my chest. I’ve never seen him stripped of his confidence and in so much pain. Even now, lying there wounded, his big body is a massive presence that seems to suck up most of the oxygen in the room. His skin is almost as pale as the sheets he lays on, and that is not good. Oh god, he’s sinking… He’s going to die. No! I squeeze my fists at my sides. Not if I have a say in this. It’s my fault that he got shot, and I’m going to make sure that I save him. I turn to head off to the dryer to get my clothes when his voice stops me. "Phone," he slurs, "the phone."
"What?" I pivot and close the distance to the bed. "What are you trying to say?"
"The phone"—his eyelids flutter open, and he fixes his blue gaze on mine—"in the woodshed."
"The woodshed?"
"Phone… Call… Michael…" His eyes close.
"Christian?" I touch his shoulder, and his skin is so hot that I freeze. Shit, shit, shit. I don’t even have a thermometer here to monitor his temperature, but clearly, his condition is worsening by the second. And what did he mean by ‘phone’? "Is there a phone in the woodshed, Christian? Is that what you’re trying to say?"
His eyes stay closed.
"Damn it." I press my fingers together. I need to find out if what he said is true. But if there is a phone, why didn’t he call for help sooner? I shake my head. First things first, I need to check if what he says is true.
I head for the dryer, pull out my clothes, and slip them on. Then pull on my boots and jacket and head out of the backdoor. It’s snowing again, but at least, the wind seems to have died down. I stomp through the snow and reach the woodshed. I push the door open and still.
It’s warmer than I expected in here, so there definitely is some kind of temperature regulation at work. On one side, the firewood is piled up neatly, as expected. On the other side, there is a chair and a table, with a laptop computer and a phone connected to the laptop. What the hell?
So, there had been a way to keep in touch with the chalet. And Christian must have used it… For what? To let them know that we were here and safe, which is why no one had come in search of us. I had wondered about it, but then, I had been so caught up in the sexual haze he’d been spinning around me that I hadn’t bothered to pursue that line of thought.
So, he has been hiding this from me all along? Why? So he could keep me here and fuck me, wear down my defenses? But to what end? I was already his captive; he could have done what he wanted with me… But did he want time alone with me? Is that why he planned this elaborate ruse?
And he had accused me of keeping a secret from him. Seems I’m not the only one. I head for the phone, pick it up, not surprised to find that it’s fully charged. I try to swipe the screen, but it's locked. Of course, it is.
I march back to the lodge, tiptoe up to the bed, and place Christian's finger on the touch ID. The phone screen unlocks. I lower his arm to his chest, then look up the names in the phonebook and press Michael’s number.
"Pronto?" Michael picks up on the fifth ring. "I didn’t think I’d be hearing from you in a few more days,stronzo," he jokes.
"Michael?" I square my shoulders. "There’s been an accident."
Half an hour later, I clamber onto the helicopter, which arrived within twenty minutes of that phone call. Apparently, the Sovranos don’t mess around when it comes to their own. Michael had listened to me without interruption, then ordered me to stay with Christian until help arrived. Before I could ask any more questions, he had disconnected.
He’s no less bossy than Christian. It seems like each Sovrano brother has an ego the size of Texas… How the hell do they manage to sit at a table and do business? Not to mention, actually get together under one roof… A feat which I now realize no one other than Nonna could have pulled off. She is the only one who seems to know how to handle these alphaholes, and when Christian finally wakes up, I’ll have one very irate alphahole to deal with.
I glance down to where the paramedics have strapped him to a stretcher. They had checked his vitals as soon as they had arrived at the lodge, started an IV drip, placed an oxygen mask around his nose, and moved him to a stretcher within minutes. The trembling had set in then, once I realized that he was in good hands. And I haven’t stopped shaking since.
"Here." Michael places Christian’s jacket around my shoulders, then sits down next to me.