The King (Black Dagger Brotherhood #12)(66)
Author: J.R. Ward

The desk seemed like the last f**king thing he ran into, and he discovered where the phone was when his man hand knocked the receiver off its cradle. Putting the thing up to his ear, he finger-tipped around until he located the buttons and then had to recock the dial tone before he could start dialing.

Picturing the ten digits with the pound sign and the star key at the base of the set-of-twelve arrangement, he punched in a seven-number sequence and waited.

“Safe Place, good afternoon.”

He closed his eyes. He’d hoped it was closer to dark because then he could go looking for her. “Hey, is Beth there?”

“No, I’m sorry, she’s not. May I take a message?” As he closed his eyes, the female said, “Hello? Is anybody there?”

“No message.”

“May I tell her who’s calling if she comes in later?”

He briefly wondered what the receptionist would do if he told her who it was. “I’ll find her elsewhere. Thanks.”

As he hung up, he felt George’s big head nudge his thigh. So typical of the dog—wanting to help.

Wrath kept his finger on the toggle, pushing down. He didn’t know if he was ready for another dial tone. If she didn’t pick up at the next number? He was going to have no f**king clue where she was. And the idea that he might have to go to Vishous or John for that kind of information was too shameful to bear.

As he punched in a different sequence, he thought to himself …

I can’t believe this is us. This just isn’t … us.

TWENTY-FOUR

Turning her head on her pillow, Sola stared at the door of the hospital room she’d been given. She wasn’t looking at it, though.

Instead, flashes of the abduction kept playing in front of her eyes, blocking everything out: Her arriving home and getting hit on the head. The car ride. The flare. The chase through the snow. Then the prison cell and that guard who’d come down to—

The knock made her jump. And it was funny; she knew who it was. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Assail eased the door open, and put only his head in, as if he were afraid of overwhelming her. “You wake.”

She pulled the blankets up higher on her chest. “Never slept.”

“No?” Pushing the door wider, he came in with a tray of food. “I had hoped … well, mayhap you would care for victuals?”

Sola tilted her head. “You have the most old-fashioned way of talking.”

“English is not my first language.” He put the tray down on a rolling table and brought it over. “It is not my second, either.”

“Probably the reason I love to listen to you.”

He froze as he heard her words—and yeah, maybe if she hadn’t been hopped up on pain meds, she wouldn’t have admitted such a thing. But what the hell.

Abruptly, he looked at her, an intense light in his eyes making them appear even more shimmery than usual. “I am glad my voice pleases you,” he said roughly.

Sola focused on the food as she began to feel warm inside for the first time since … everything. “Thanks for making the effort, but I’m not hungry.”

“You need food.”

“The antibiotics are making me sick.” She nodded at the IV bag hanging off the pole next to her bed. “Whatever’s in there is just … awful.”

“I will feed you.”

“I…”

For some reason, she thought back to that night out in the snow, when he’d tracked her off his property and confronted her at her car. Talk about menacing in the dark—Jesus, he’d scared the shit out of her. But that wasn’t all she’d felt.

Assail brought the one chair in the room over. Funny, it wasn’t one of those rickety plastic jobbies that you normally found in clinics; it was like something out of Pottery Barn, padded, cozy, and with a nice pattern. As he sat down, he didn’t fit in it, and not because he was overweight. He was too big, his powerful body dwarfing its arms and back, his clothes too black for the pale color—

There were bloodstains on his jacket, brown and dried. And on his shirt. His pants.

“Do not look upon that,” he said softly. “Here. For you, I chose only the best.”

Lifting up the cloche, he revealed …

“Where the hell am I?” she demanded as she leaned in and breathed deep. “Does, like, Jean-Georges have a medical division or something?”

“Who is this Jean-Georges?”

“Some fancy chef in New York City. I heard about him on Food Network.” She sat up, wincing as her thigh let out a hey-girlie. “I don’t even like roast beef—but that looks amazing.”

“I thought the iron would be good for you.”

The slab of beef was beautifully cooked, with a crust that cracked as he cut into it with—

“Are those sterling silver?” she wondered at the fork, the knife—the spoon that was still on a fancy folded napkin.

“Eat.” He brought a precisely cut piece to her mouth. “Eat for me.”

Without any prompting, her mouth opened on its own, like it was going to have none of the I-can-feed-myself delays.

Closing her eyes, she groaned. Yeah, she wasn’t hungry. Not at all.

“This is the single best thing I have ever eaten.”

The smile that lit his face made no sense. It was too bright to be just about her having some grub—and he must have known this, because he turned his head so she only saw a flash of the expression.

For the next fifteen, twenty minutes, the only sounds in the room, apart from the whistling heating vents, was that luxe silverware hitting a porcelain plate. And yup, in spite of her oh-no-I-couldn’t-possiblies, she ate that huge slice of beef, and the scalloped potatoes, and the creamed spinach. As well as the dinner roll that surely was homemade. And the peach cobbler. And she even had some of the chilled bottled water and the coffee that came in a carafe.

She probably would have eaten the napkin, the tray, all that sterling and the rolling table if given the chance.

Collapsing back against the pillow, she put her hand over her belly. “I think I’m going to explode.”

“I shall just put this out in the hall. Pardon me.”

From her vantage point, she measured every move he made: the way he stood up, gripped the sides of the tray in long, elegant hands, turned away, walked smoothly.

Talk about your table manners. He’d handled the silver with a genteel flare, as if he used that kind of thing in his own home. And he hadn’t spilled a drop as he’d poured her coffee. Or missed any food getting into her mouth.