Arminda POV
The penthouse was shrouded in darkness when I woke up, the silence not peaceful, but heavy and suffocating.
I checked my watch. 2:00 AM.
My head throbbed, a rhythmic reminder of the concrete coping where I had pressed my forehead earlier in despair. I crept out of my room, my sole intention to leave my keys on the counter and walk out the door forever.
I found him on the bathroom floor.
Coleton was curled in a fetal position on the cold marble, shivering violently. The "comfort food" had done exactly what I said it would. He was pale, sweating through his shirt, groaning in his sleep.
Charly was nowhere to be seen. She had probably gone to the guest suite to sleep, unwilling to deal with the mess she had created.
I should have stepped over him. I should have left him there.
But my hands moved before my brain could stop them. I knelt beside him.
"Coleton," I whispered.
He flinched, his eyes cracking open. They were hazy with pain. "Arminda?" he rasped. "It hurts."
"I know," I said softly.
I got a wet cloth and wiped his face. I helped him sit up, guiding him to lean against the tub. I adjusted the brace on his ankle, my fingers brushing the scars I knew better than my own name.
The metal clasp of the brace snagged my skin, slicing a thin line across my palm. I didn't flinch, and in his delirium, he didn't notice.
He leaned his head on my shoulder, his heavy breaths warming my neck. For a moment, he was the broken prince again, and I was his only sanctuary.
"Make it stop," he mumbled, his hand gripping my arm like a lifeline.
"Breathe," I instructed, massaging the pressure points on his hand. "It will pass."
He fell asleep like that, his head on my shoulder, his weight crushing me against the hard porcelain. I stayed until dawn, until his breathing evened out. Then I extricated myself, leaving him a glass of water and fresh enzymes.
By noon, the vulnerability was gone.
"Get dressed," Coleton barked, standing in the living room.
He looked haggard but composed, the armor back in place. "Charly has a gallery opening downtown. You're coming."
"I'm not on the clock," I said, standing by my door. "And I have a concussion."
"You're on the clock until I say you aren't," he snapped, adjusting his cuffs. "Charly needs an assistant for the event. Someone to handle the logistics. You're organized. You're going."
"I am a trauma nurse, Coleton. Not a personal assistant."
"You are whatever I pay you to be," he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous, vibrating octave. "Get in the car."
The gallery was a sleek, modern space in SoHo, filled with people who smelled of old money and new crimes. Charly was the center of attention, displaying "art" that looked like paint splattered by a toddler.
She treated me like a servant, snapping her fingers for water, for champagne, for me to hold her purse.
Coleton stood by the door, watching the exits. He was paranoid. He had enemies.
I was standing near a sculpture made of twisted metal when the alarm screamed.
It wasn't a fire drill. The sound was followed instantly by a concussive *boom* from the back of the gallery. The front windows shattered inward. Smoke, thick and black, rolled across the ceiling instantly. A rival family. A message.
"Down!" Jaydan screamed somewhere in the smoke.
The crowd surged like a terrified beast. I was shoved hard into the metal sculpture. My bad ankle, the one I had sprained months ago carrying Coleton’s equipment, twisted violently. A sharp crack echoed up my leg. I crumbled to the floor, gasping.
"Coleton!" I screamed, the smoke stinging my eyes.
I saw him. He was ten feet away. He looked wildly through the gray haze. His eyes locked on mine.
For a second, I saw recognition. I saw him start to move toward me.
Then Charly shrieked. "Cole! Help me!"
She was standing near the exit, perfectly fine, just scared.
Coleton stopped. He looked at me, on the floor, unable to stand. Then he looked at Charly.
He turned his back on me.
He grabbed Charly’s hand and shoved her through the door, disappearing into the safety of the street.
I was left alone in the smoke. The sprinklers kicked on, drenching me in cold, oily water. I dragged myself across the floor, glass cutting into my knees, my ankle screaming with every inch. I crawled over the shards of Charly's terrible art, coughing until I tasted blood.
I woke up in a hospital room that wasn't the Barron private suite. It was a general trauma ward. Jaydan was sitting in the chair, looking at the floor.
"Hairline fracture," he said without looking up. "And smoke inhalation."
"Where is he?" I asked, my voice a rasp.
"He's securing the perimeter," Jaydan lied. We both knew he was lying. "He... he didn't know you were still inside, Arminda. The smoke was thick."
"He looked me in the eye, Jaydan," I whispered.
The door banged open. Coleton strode in. He smelled of smoke and expensive cologne. He didn't look at the cast on my leg. He didn't ask how I was.
He marched to the bed, his face a mask of fury.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he demanded.
I stared at him. "What?"
"The maid found your room stripped," he growled, leaning over the bed, invading my space. "Suitcases packed. Pictures destroyed. You were leaving. Before the fire, you were leaving."
"Yes," I said.
"You don't get to leave," he hissed. "Not until I say we're done."
"You left me in a burning building, Coleton," I said, my voice dead. "We're done."
