Most of All You: A Love Story(36)

I woke again as something pulled tight around my ribs. I looked down blearily and saw male hands on a background of white as if they were a work of art being presented on a perfect canvas. Everything else around me was foggy and faded, and they were the only things I could focus on. Gabriel’s hands. They were incredibly beautiful, and though I was so tired, I couldn’t help but reach out and touch them, to trace the elegant lines of his fingers, to feel the smooth, hard fingernails, to travel back to the golden, scattered hairs on the tops of his tan hands, to run along each vein, each knuckle. They were so still as I explored them, too still, and I realized they must not be real. Gabriel wouldn’t want me to touch him this way. No, just a memory of his hands … just a … My eyes fell closed and I was in darkness once again.

The fever—which Gabriel assured me the doctor had said was normal as long as it didn’t get too high—broke, but right after that, I had a bad reaction to one of my medications. When I vomited repeatedly and felt like my ribs were being squeezed in a medieval torture device, I thought I was going to die.

All through it, Gabriel was there, steady, calm, seemingly unruffled, though I felt his body tense each time he got near me. He was forcing himself to assist me, at least physically, and despite my best efforts to remain unaffected, it made me feel an unfamiliar tenderness toward him.

He made me food and delivered it to me in bed, even spooning it into my mouth a couple of times when all I wanted to do was sleep rather than sit up and eat. He kept in contact with my doctor and made pharmacy runs. He woke me up through the night to take the pills that kept me mostly comfortable, but hazy and out of it. When the sickness had passed, he helped me to the shower, though I locked him out of the room once he’d gotten me situated. I struggled with removing my clothes on my own and putting the plastic cast cover I found waiting on the sink over my cast to keep it dry. He must have asked the hospital for some equipment as well because there was a hospital-issued stool with handles in the shower, making me feel like I was ninety. But in reality, I already felt like I was ninety, with or without the medical shower stool. My soul was as weary as that of a ninety-year-old, and now I had a body to match. Wonderful.

Near the end of the week, Gabriel knocked on my bedroom door to tell me a police detective was there to see me. A brief tremor of fear shot down my spine, but I picked up my crutches and followed Gabriel to the living room, where the detective was waiting. He was the same man who’d come to the hospital to take my statement.

“Detective Blair,” I said hesitantly as I shook his hand.

“Hi, Eloise. You look like you’re healing well.”

I made a noncommittal sound. I hardly thought I looked much different than I had when he saw me last, and I still felt mostly miserable. But at least I wasn’t flat on my back in a hospital bed. That was a small improvement.

“Would you like to sit down?” Gabriel asked, moving toward the couches, his concerned gaze focused on me.

I gave him a wobbly smile and we all took a seat. Detective Blair laced his hands on his lap. “We arrested the three men who assaulted you.”

I blinked in surprise, a trickle of numbness moving through me. I glanced at Gabriel, who was holding himself stiffly, still looking at the detective, seeming as shocked by the news as I was.

“How …?” I asked, my voice sounding hoarse. I cleared my throat.

“One of the men turned himself in and then named the other two.”

“Oh,” I whispered, recalling the hesitance in the black-haired man’s eyes, remembering as he tried to stop them, though not with much force. I had to assume he’d been the one to turn himself in.

“I have Officer Sherman here with me, waiting outside, and he’d like to administer a photo lineup. Is that okay?” I nodded, swallowing, feeling suddenly ill.

“Okay, good. Just one second. Mr. Dalton, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room with me while Ms. Cates looks at the photos.”

Gabriel gave me a questioning look, but I just nodded at him and watched as the detective went to the front door, where he let in a uniformed police officer. After a quick greeting, Officer Sherman took several photo arrays out of a file and laid them before me individually. I took a deep breath and looked down, my eyes moving from one face to the next.

Guess we’ll just have to take what we want.

Hey, bitch.

“These three,” I breathed, my finger identifying each of them one by one. I felt cold and gripped my icy hands in my lap. I was surprised I’d been able to pick them out so easily. I’d always been good at forgetting the faces of the men I served at the Platinum Pearl. And yet, I could still picture these men clearly. Perhaps it was because the anger they’d inspired—an intensity of which I’d never been able to muster up before—had branded their faces in my brain forever. Or maybe it was because the memory had been very literally beaten into me.

Officer Sherman nodded, picking the pictures back up. “Thank you.”

After the detective and officer had left, Gabriel helped me back to bed, saying softly, “You’re safe.” I realized I was shaking slightly and made an effort to smile and nod. I did feel safe at Gabriel’s house, but it was a reminder that I wouldn’t be there forever.

The next morning, I woke up early, realizing I’d left the shade open the night before. The rising sun was just creeping over the horizon, the room awash in a pale gold hue. I stretched carefully, realizing that, although I was still very sore, it was the first morning I didn’t feel awful. I pulled myself gingerly out of bed, grabbed my crutches, and hobbled to use the bathroom.