Chapter 36

**Hadassah POV**

Once Doctor Richardson left. Torin nestled himself in an armchair positioned right next to me.

I can't believe I was out for this long. But I definitely feel it. It's like my body is nothing but a deadweight anchored to the bed. A constant pain aching deep in my heavy bones. Drained of every morsel of energy like a dried fruit, bled dry of everything—but not everything—I survived.

Exhaustion scratches at my eyes, trying to close them. I fight through it. For a little while.

I take a good look at the bedroom. We're not on the yacht anymore, I'm back at the manor again. Except this time the room is overflowing with red roses from the ground up to every flat surface that is festooned with an endless assemblage of regal red blooms. My gaze skims over the precise rows that were arrayed to create a singular path from the bed to the entrance.

I look at Torin and it's surreal like seeing a made-up character of my dreams manifest itself into being. His lush, molten brown hair groomed with rippling quality. Bushy but shaped brows are knitted in frustration, staring pensively at me. Those eyes of burnished amber transfixed on me.

"Do you... remember me?"

Smiling internally, I keep my face straight whilst I shake my head. "Should I?"

His face falls. "You're joking, right?"

Unable to restrain it, a smile breaks free; however small. Still sincere. "As if I could forget that mad, ugly face."

"Ugly?" He relaxes into the chair. "Since you just woke up from a coma, I can understand that your perception is still greatly skewed."

"You sure it's just the coma?"

He narrows his eyes at me playfully. "Keep running your mouth and see if I won't put you under again."

I look around pointedly. "Did you buy out a flower store?" I never seen so many roses, overcrowded in one place like this. An entire garden of them in full bloom packaged beautifully in bouquet stands. "There's a whole greenhouse in here."

His tongue pokes through his cheek, smiling bashfully at his lap. "Well, you battled death and won. I suppose that merited a 'congrats on not dying' tribute."

Something fuzzy and warm embraces my heart. I dust it off like something filthy.

His roasted ivory skin aglow, ambers gleaming with mirth.

"And where is he?"

Torin swallows, his smile falters, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"...Torin?"

The light in his eyes suddenly feeble, overcast by a dark truth that they hold.

"He was on an operation in Sinaloa."

There's only one reason that I can think of as to why he went there.

"They... infiltrated Gaza's compound."

I nearly burst out of the sheets but a world's weight of prolonged inertia binds me to bed.

"Besides his floating fortress, his home base is more fortified than Fort Knox. The military even steers clear of it."

"He had an advanced team of combatants, decorated, elite ex-military soldiers as his entourage." He shrugged passively. "He had the best of the best as his unit."

"And Gaza... is he..." I straggle off, words dissolving with the air that vanishes from my lungs because I already know the answer.

Torin nods rigidly.

I look up at the ceiling, exhaling, a suppressed burden seeping out with my breath. Filling me something that resembles guilt. More blood spilled because of me. I know Gaza was a criminal, the head of a vicious drug cartel and he was after me. Only because of what I did. I can't help it. Regardless of his crimes, he was a person, it was a life that was taken because of my actions. And I know... Gaza probably killed a thousand more. But this thing of exacting justice and taking the law into your own hands... playing god.

We have a constitution for a reason, it gives the illusion of civility and order. Something that should separate people from animals but now I see that there isn't much of a difference. The same barbarism of the savage kingdom reigns over civilization as well, just in different forms.

"Why do you look like that?"

The far-off look in his eyes dissipates. Confusion screws his face up into a frown as he plugs back into reality. "What... look like what?"

"Agitated?" His fingers tapping on the arm of the chair incessantly. He stills his hand by curling it into a fist. "I've seen you shoot down Yakuza and Gaza's men like a video game with a smile. And now that his dead...you look...displeased."

He's omitting something. I just don't know what.

He lets out an eruptive exhale. "Because there's a reason why we didn't do that before. But it seems Gaza forced Orian's hand when he nearly succeeded in killing you. Do you think your troubles will end just because his dead? No, now they've only multiplied."

Stress hammers on my heart causing it to pound in my chest, a tremor surging through my blood. A sharp beeping noise renders us both mute. Torin leaps up and walks around to get a closer look at the heart monitor. The line becomes more erratic, and the beeping grows louder.

"Your vital signs are spiking... you need to calm down." He turns away from the monitor and demonstrates a breathing technique with his hands. "Breath in..." he raises his hands slowly, "... and breathe out." Lowering them back down with the same speed.

I close my eyes, focusing my breathing, tempering the fast-paced tempo. My chest soon rises and falls in a placid rhythm. The noise finally stops, reduced to serene ambient sounds.

"I didn't know telling you that Orian massacred an entire compound of people, for you, would have caused you such distress."

My eyes snap open. "Alleviate my stress by leaving," I hiss back.

Doctor Richardson makes his reappearance with a worry line engraved between his brows.

"Everything's all right here, doc."

"Oh yes, I'm sure," he agrees with pure sarcasm. "That's why the electrocardiogram went haywire."

***

A few days pass, and Torin has not left my side.

Sherly has been like my co-caretaker, helping me dress and wash. The pain was insurmountable when I first tried to walk. The healed gunshot wound reminding me of its existence me, every chance it gets. Torin assumes the role of hostage keeper very diligently, making sure I take my prescribed medication, and guiding me through the light cardiovascular and aerobic exercises that doc recommended. Even though they have a trained professional, Torin insists on doing it himself.

Usually, I'd have my meals in bed. But today, Torin has a different plan for lunch.

"You sure you don't need any help?" He asks for the fifth time from the other side of the ensuite.

I ignore him, relishing in the lost independence of dressing myself. Something I never thought I would have to be grateful for. I was already wrapped in an overlap Cami sundress that opens with a seamless leg slit, pastel green with a ditsy floral print. But what is consuming my time is getting my hair to obey. But after undergoing a self-treatment, I manage to restore my hair to its former glory. For the first time, I actually recognise the reflection in the mirror. The bottom half of my hair left free, rejuvenated curls tumbling over my shoulders. The top half is tied into a high ponytail, held together by a baby-blue ribbon.

I leave the adjoint bathroom. Torin is standing before the closed glass doors of the balcony, looking out into the view. Bathing in a pool of scintillating sunlight, the sharp contrast only accentuating his serrated bone structure. The parade of roses is diminished to an appropriate amount, adorning a few surfaces and the head of the deceased hearth.

He whirls around. "You rea—" he falls into a pit of silence.

A fulsome smile budding on his face. He takes his time. His eyes trace over my form with a reverent hunger, devouring every inch as if committing myessence to memory.
Each glance is a delicate caress, a whispered sonnet, a silent confession. I cross my arms, discomfort hauling my gaze to the ground.

"Don't do that." He shakes his head reproachfully, his tone sombre and free from play. "Let me look at you."

I frown at him, keeping my arms crossed.

"Pretty please."

I drop my arms, doing a dramatic spin. "There, happy?"

"Happiness doesn't quantity how I feel." He saunters over to me, each step ennobled with assertiveness. "You don't know how it feels to see you like this. I sat at your side for weeks wondering if you would ever wake up. The first week was fucking hell. You sustained traumatic injuries, severe bleeding, and the bullet nicked a vital artery. You were lucky to have survived. I don't know, felt like a fucking piece of me was dying to watch you go through that."

His words grip me like something tangible. Wholly grasping the realisation that he was there for me like a lifeline. Orian was the last thing I saw, but Torin was the first; the cycle of the moon.

"But I don't suppose that mattered to you."

"Can't say it does." A twinge needles my chest like something sharp in my heart.

Because of my circumstance, I shouldn't care. But I do.

Torin leads us out of the room, weaving through the labyrinth of crimson-carpeted hallways. But when we get to the stairway that seems mountainous from where I'm standing. I pause.

Torin stops two steps down, pivoting to look back at me. "Ah," he notes with immediate comprehension. "Would you like me to carry you down?"

A frown strikes my forehead. "I got this."

I eye the sophisticated iron railing that makes a sculptural statement with its wrought designs and its floor-set newel post. The curving rail and beautifully detailed balusters are held in place by decorative brackets for the plush runners. My hand grabs it for support as I begin to guide my way down. Merely one step down and pain punishes my pride as a searing ache burns through my leg and clenches the closed wound in my gut. Actively holding back a cry, my lips bolted shut.

"There are three flights of stairs. At this rate, we'll be having dinner by the time you reach the ground level."

I whip my head to the side. "I said. I got this."

"Oh, of course, strong black woman needs no man's help."

"No, I just don't want your help."

"You know what—"

Torin comes at me and against my fervent protesting. He lifts me off the steps, taking me into his arms, smiling triumphantly. His cologne washes over me, swept under the overpowering aroma, smouldering with a sensual and rich scent.

"Admit it, you feel better."

Silently, I loop my arm around his neck.

He grins at the mute accord and carries me down three flights, bridal-style. Very much mindful of my weight, but his seemingly effortless pick-up, staves off my absurd insecurity. Even when we reach the ground floor, he doesn't put me down. He continues to stroll onwards, grinning goofily, like he's bringing home a trophy he had won.

"You can put me down now."

"Just let me have this."