Page 53 of The Chosen
It was almost daybreak. In less than an hour, the sun would start to rise over the horizon.
And Henry still wasn’t home.
Blake offered to stay with me when I made it clear I had no intention of going to sleep.
But I could tell he wasn’t all that comfortable on the couch, so I sent him to the pool house to take some painkillers and get some rest, leaving me alone to worry about whether I’d ever see Henry again.
I understood his need for answers. Hell, I even respected it.
I may not have known Henry long, but there was one thing of which I was certain.
He would burn down the world for the people he loved.
But now, as I sat alone in his living room, staring at the darkened foyer, I was torn between being worried and just outright angry.
It wasn’t the fact that he chose to put his life in danger that upset me.
It was that he kept me in the dark after promising he wouldn’t.
The sound of an engine cut through the ocean waves crashing in the distance, and my heart leapt in my chest. But I refused to get my hopes up.
I’d lost count of how many times I’d heard what I thought was a car, only for it to be something else. A boat on the water. A distant rumble of thunder. The low hum of wind blowing through the palms.
Then I heard a faint beeping, like someone entering their code into the keypad.
I shot to my feet, my pulse increasing with every step I took toward the foyer.
Finally, the door opened and Henry slipped inside.
But it wasn’t the same Henry he was when he kissed me goodbye this morning.
His button-down shirt was stained with blood, the dark red stark against the white material. His right eye was nearly swollen shut, blooming purple and blue across his cheekbone. The scar I’d stitched up mere weeks ago had split open, a thin line of red streaking down his temple with even more dried blood staining his mouth and jaw.
He didn’t notice me at first. Just stumbled through the foyer in the direction of the wet bar in the living room. I watched as he grabbed the bottle of scotch and drank straight from it, swaying on his unsteady legs as he swallowed gulp after gulp.
“Care to tell me where you’ve been?” I asked once he set the bottle back on the surface.
He whirled around, the sudden movement making him lose his balance, and he slammed into the wet bar.
I rushed toward him and slipped an arm around his waist to help steady him. His body heat seeped into me, momentarily soothing my anger and frustration.
“You need to sit.” I guided him toward the couch, and he collapsed onto it with a harsh grunt.
“You’re so good to me,” he slurred. “I don’t deserve you.”
“You’re right. You don’t.”
His mouth twitched on one side. “You’re mad at me. Aren’t you?”
I parted my lips, so many thoughts on the tip of my tongue.
How I’d paced this room until I’d worn a path in the rug.
How I’d imagined turning on the news to learn his body was found in a shipping container at the port.
How I’d spent hours struggling to breathe through the helplessness that clawed at me.
But he was barely conscious.
