Unbeloved (Undeniable #4)(37)
Her arm crept over his midsection as her cheek nuzzled his chest, and he pulled her even closer, running his hand down her back, over the curve of her ass, and then back up again and into her hair. Feeling the scar that lay beneath it, he softly grazed the raised and bumpy skin over and over again, feeling a wave of sadness wash over him. He should have been there. If he had been there, if he would have stayed and fought for Dorothy, this might not have happened.
It was something he’d never forgive himself for, something that would haunt him until the day he died. That his ego couldn’t handle another rejection from her, and because of that she’d been shot, and he’d nearly lost both her and their son.
But alongside his guilt, he felt something else, something he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Holding her, touching her, even after all this time, he marveled at how natural it felt. How right it felt.
Feeling content, he closed his eyes. As he started to drift off again, both his body and mind still exhausted from all he’d physically endured, he felt her shift.
“Hawk,” she whispered sleepily, her breath tickling his skin. “I love you.”
He didn’t respond, just closed his eyes and let those three stupid words sink inside him. She was still sound asleep, and he thought that maybe they’d had been the result of a dream, or caused by her worry for him. But regardless of why she’d said them, it was the first time he’d heard those words since his father had been killed.
And the pain that hearing them caused within his chest, the pain inside his heart, was very much the type of pain Hawk could get down with.
Chapter Twelve
Fresh from my shower, wrapped in a large white towel and under the impression that Hawk was still riddled with fever and half delirious, I’d stepped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.
He wasn’t. He was wide awake, had managed to sit himself up some, and was sloppily guzzling water from the pitcher I’d left beside the bed.
Over the rim of the pitcher his eyes met mine, those unfathomably dark eyes growing even more opaque as he lowered his drink to focus on me.
“Hey,” he said, his voice hoarse and scratchy, then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Hawk’s voice, that lone word, caused icy-hot shivers to race along my skin, leaving trails of gooseflesh in their wake.
Feeling suddenly flustered and strangely embarrassed, I clutched my towel tighter around me and tried to smile. “Hey,” I said softly.
Glancing away from me and around the room, he cleared his throat. “Where are we?”
I surveyed the mostly barren room, containing only a bed, a nightstand, and the obligatory dresser. Cage and Tegen weren’t much for decorating or personal touches.
“Cage and Tegen’s,” I answered.
He nodded. “How long have I been out?”
I lifted my shoulder. “About four days. You had a pretty nasty infection. The doctor Deuce brought here had to open your leg back up and clean it out.”
Hawk’s gaze dropped to his bandaged leg. Propped atop several pillows, it was currently wrapped in an Aircast boot. Remembering the discolored skin, how severely infected the poorly stitched-up wound had become, I internally cringed. I had begged Deuce to take him to a hospital, but the man was exasperatingly adamant that Hawk would remain where he was. Thankfully for Hawk, the doctor had been legitimate.
“You should have a hard cast,” I continued. “But under the circumstances . . .” I trailed off, not knowing how to broach the subject of Hawk’s true identity. It still felt foreign to me, everything Deuce had told me and, although I knew it was the truth, it didn’t feel real to me. Hawk was, and to me always would be . . . Hawk.
This other life he’d once led, the son of a Russian mob boss who was gunned down, felt like some farfetched and contrived story, the stuff movies were made of, and not the former life of the man I shared a child with.
“Deuce didn’t think taking me to a hospital was a good idea,” he finished for me. “Bullet wounds tend to attract police. And if the police decide to dig . . .”
Hawk’s eyes were still downcast, glazed over, and looking past his leg at nothing. “Guess you probably got some questions for me,” he said quietly.
I did have questions for him, hundreds of them, yet standing here, looking at him, none seemed to come to mind. All that mattered for the moment was that he was home safe and he was healing from his injuries.
“They can wait,” I whispered. “You just need to get better.”
He let out a deep breath, and the lines creasing his face eased a bit. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was relieved, but the Hawk I knew didn’t much care what people thought of him.
Except this time, he seemed to care.
“I’m sorry I missed Christmas,” he said, lifting his eyes, stopping on my chest where the little heart pendant hung from the chain around my neck. My hand went immediately to it, my fingers curled around it, gripping it tightly until I could feel the sharp point of the heart digging into my palm.
Suddenly the pendant seemed to mean so much more than it had. As if it hadn’t just been a thoughtful gesture, hadn’t just been a father shopping for a gift for the mother of his child.
This little heart around my neck seemed to embody the man himself, full of secrets, hidden meanings, and so much more than met the eye.