Savior (The Kingwood Duet #2)

“He went to get some food.”

I don’t recognize the room. My surroundings have changed. The green couch is now mauve and the window is bigger, a tree just outside blocking the view of anything else. “Where am I?”

His hands lower to his sides as he stands near the foot of the bed. “They moved you out of ICU.” Resting back, my eyes don’t leave his. The same kindness I received for months still resides in the gentle curve of his lips, the uncertainty in his eyes, and in his tone. “I’m . . . I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner to help you, to stop him before you were hurt.”

“Why would you be?” I ask, confused why he thinks he needs to apologize for matters out of his hands. “Why were you there at all?”

“I need to tell you something, Alice.” His eyes close tight and he mentally beats himself up. When he looks back at me, he smiles. “Sorry. Habit.”

“It’s okay. I still want to call you Eric, so I get it.” I cringe a little when I try to adjust my body.

His tone turns serious, and quieter as he comes closer. The silence lingers longer and it feels odd, disconcerting in some ways when I used to feel so easy around him. He says, “I can’t answer your questions. I want to, but it’s best if I don’t quite yet.”

“Why?”

“Please don’t ask. I don’t want to lie to you, and that’s what I’d have to do if I tell you anything.”

“When can you tell me?”

“Hopefully soon.”

“I hate secrets, Jason.”

“I do too, but I’m used to living in one. I think you are too.”

“It was only a few months.”

“I’m talking about all those years prior.”

Eyeing him, I don’t want to defend my relationship with Alexander or how I chose to turn away from what was right in front of me all along. I blame myself. I blame Alexander. But I disrespected him to someone I thought I knew, but maybe didn’t at all. “I may have lied about my name, but I was still Alice underneath. That wasn’t a lie. Who you saw was the real me.”

“I let my guard down for you. I trusted you with the real me. I need you to trust me now.”

“I need you to give me something, something of substance instead of I can’t tell you anything.”

“I have. I broke my cover and told you my name.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because if you ever needed me, I wanted you to be able to find me.”

I’m not able to argue with that. Threatened was something I never felt with him. His honesty, his interest, his concern for me is what he gave openly without asking a million questions, so I need to give him that same courtesy. For now.

“How are you doing?”

“I was beaten and shot.” I lost my baby. “I’m alive. Barely. So I’ve been better.”

“I’ve felt awful—”

“Why?”

He looks right and I follow his gaze. Alexander stands in the doorway, food bags in his hand. His glare leaves Jason and anchors itself on me. “I brought food for you. Tacos. Your favorite.”

“Thank you,” comes out too pitchy as if I’ve been caught doing something wrong. He walks in and sets them on a table nearby. I add, “I’m not sure what I can eat yet.”

He kisses me on the head and I can’t help feel that it might be more for Jason’s benefit in addition to being an endearment for me. “How are you feeling?”

Not liking that I’ve been moved while asleep, I try to relax. I’m safe. With Alexander I’m safe. “When did I get moved?”

“A few hours ago.” Turning to Jason, he asks, “When did you get here?”

Jason shifts then steps back from the bed and starts for the door. “I’ve only been here a few minutes. I should go.”

Alexander asks, “Why are you here?”

He stops shoulder to shoulder with Alexander and looks over. They’re well matched in size, but no one challenges Alexander and gets away with it. I know him too well. He won’t back down. Jason smiles, I suppose trying to calm the tension. “I was looking for you, man.”

“I’m here. What do you want?”

Shaking his head, he smiles to himself. “I was just following up on something.” Glancing to me, he adds, “We can discuss it later.”

“Fine. Later.”

Jason nods once, looking past Alexander at me. “Glad you’re okay.”

Timidly, I tug the covers up higher. “Thanks.” When Alexander and I are alone, I say, “He’s not the enemy.”

Alexander angles my way, his brow furrowed, a hardness spreading across his face. “You sure about that?”

“I am.”

“I’m not.”

To distract from the aggravation I see growing in his eyes, I ask, “What kind of tacos?”

A smile slides into place. “Nice try.” He doesn’t continue to argue. He knows it’ll do no good. “Chicken. Lettuce, tomato, cheese. Just how you like them. I even got the medium roasted salsa for you.”

“My mouth is watering, but my body—not so much. We should probably check with a nurse first.”

“I will.”

“Have you talked to Shelly? I’m worried about her.”

“Don’t worry. She’s fine.”

“How can she be fine under the circumstances?”

“The doctor was clear. You need to keep the stress down. Your parents even agreed to go home since I was here. We’re all doing what’s best for you. So don’t start looking for other things to concern yourself with. I just need you to heal.”

“She’s my friend. I’ve been worried about her the whole time . . . I want out of this place so badly.”

Stroking my cheek, he says, “So do I. I want to be alone with you. I want privacy.” He shifts.

It’s not a production, but I notice, and ask, “What is it?”

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about April.”

“Your birth mom?”

He’s quick to correct me, “My birth mother.” Not mom.

“All right. Is she doing okay?”

“She’s adjusting.”

“To what?”

He sits down on the chair close to the bed, his hands folding together. The blues of his eyes meet mine, and he says, “She’s living at the manor.”

My head tilts unexpectedly as I take in this information. “I thought she was supposed to get her own place?”

“She was, but her recovery hasn’t been easy, and we thought it would be good for us to get to know each other better.”

I force myself to blink when my eyes feel dry from staring at him. He’s hiding something from me, and I can see it in his body language and through his evasiveness. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you know her better?”

“She’s only been around for a few weeks. I’m not home that much.”

“Some things don’t change.”

Standing, he holds the bedrail and looks down at me. The outer part of his shoulders slope. He’s not defensive or mad, but he’s definitely uncomfortable with the conversation. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Sara Jane.”

“I don’t want your apologies. I want you. All of you this time.”

S.L. Scott's books