CHAPTER 27 : The Sleeping King

The doctor pulled down his mask. He looked at me, at the blood dried on my skin, at the trembling in my hands and his expression softened.

"He made it," he said.

My knees gave out. I didn't fall, but I had to grab the back of the plastic chair to stay upright. The air rushed back into my lungs in a painful gasp.

"He is in the ICU," the doctor continued, his voice grave. "The knife nicked his left kidney and severed a minor artery. We had to remove the damaged kidney. He lost a significant amount of blood, Mrs. Thorne. If he had arrived five minutes later..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

"Can I see him?" I whispered.

"He is sedated," the doctor warned. "He won't be able to talk. But... yes. You can go in."

I followed him down the long, sterile hallway. The smell of antiseptic was overwhelming, stinging my nose. It was a sharp contrast to the smell of rain and smoke that still clung to my hair.

The doctor opened the door to Room 101.

"I’ll give you a moment."

I walked in.

The room was dim, lit only by the green glow of the heart monitor and the streetlights filtering through the blinds.

And there he was.

Julian Thorne. The Devil of the East Side. The man who terrified half the city.

He looked... human.

He was pale, his skin almost blending in with the white sheets. A tube ran from his nose, and an IV line was taped to the back of his hand. His chest rose and fell in a shallow, mechanical rhythm.

I walked to the side of the bed. I felt like an intruder. I was used to seeing him in tailored suits, armored in arrogance and power. Seeing him like this, vulnerable and very broken, felt wrong.

"You look terrible," I whispered, my voice choking on a sob.

I reached out and brushed a stray lock of dark hair off his forehead. His skin was fever hot.

I pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. I took his hand, the one not connected to the IV and held it in both of mine. His fingers were calloused and rough, but limp.

"You idiot," I scolded him softly, tears finally spilling over. "Why did you jump? You had a gun. You have an army. Why did you use your body as a shield?"

Because you aren't an asset, Vivian.

The heart monitor beeped steadily. Beep... beep... beep.

It was the only sound in the room.

I looked at his sleeping face. I traced the sharp line of his jaw with my thumb.

"I hated you," I confessed to the silence. "When Caleb sold me, I thought you were the monster. I thought you were going to destroy me."

I squeezed his hand tighter.

"But you didn't destroy me, Julian. You built me."

I thought about the gala. I thought about the gun he put in my hand. I thought about the way he looked at me when I wore the red dress , it was a look of not just with desire, but with pride.

"You were right," I whispered. "This is a war. And I’m done hiding in the library."

I stood up and leaned over him. I pressed a soft kiss to his feverish forehead.

"Rest now," I promised him. "Sleep. Because when you wake up, I’m going to need you to teach me how to shoot."

I sat back down, refusing to let go of his hand.

Hours passed. The nurses came in to check his vitals, giving me sympathetic looks, but I didn't move. I watched the sun rise through the blinds, painting streaks of orange across the hospital floor.

Around 7:00 AM, the rhythm of his breathing changed.

His fingers twitched in mine.

I shot up. "Julian?"

His eyelids fluttered. He groaned, a sound of deep pain deep in his chest. Slowly, agonizingly, his gray eyes opened. They were hazy, unfocused.

He blinked, trying to make sense of the room. Then, his gaze landed on me.

He didn't smile. He didn't say hello.

His brows drew together in a frown as he looked at my dress.

"Blood," he rasped, his voice sounding like broken glass.

"It’s okay," I soothed, leaning close. "It’s yours. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe."

He shook his head slightly, his grip on my hand tightening with surprising strength.

"Not... safe," he wheezed. "Luca..."

"Luca is handled," I lied. I didn't know if he was dead or alive, but I wasn't going to let Julian worry about it now. "Marcus has the floor secured. No one is getting in here."

Julian stared at me for a long moment. He seemed to be searching my face for cracks.

"You stay," he commanded, his eyes fighting to stay open. "Right here. In my sight."

"I’m not going anywhere," I said, stroking his hair. "I’m right here."

He let out a long breath, the tension leaving his body as the sedative pulled him back under.

"Good," he mumbled. "My... wife."

His eyes closed.

I froze.

He hadn't said it for the press. He hadn't said it to intimidate an enemy. He had said it to me.

I looked at the ring on my finger. The diamond that had felt like a shackle weeks ago now felt like something else entirely.

A promise.

I settled back into the chair, my resolve hardening like steel.

"Yes, Julian," I whispered. "I am your wife. And God help anyone who tries to hurt you again."