Page 245 of Lethal Obsession

“I’m sick of being quiet,” I say furiously. “And endlessly fucking positive. Taking care of your goddamn brain waves, or vibes, or whatever it is that everyone does in here when they tiptoe around you. Coming in here and measuring you for a tux or telling you stupid gossip, when all you do is fucking lie there and give up. Because that’s what you’re doing, you gutless motherfucker!”

I come to my feet, heat racing through my veins, almost shaking with the rage I’ve spent weeks suppressing.

“You came after me, remember? I’d have taken that one wild night in Paris and banked it, a memory I could look back on fondly in old age. In no world did I ever expect you to show up at an obscure fucking cello recital a week later, or put me on your private jet days after that. You just kept coming back. Even after I realized how fucked-up you were and told you not to. Especially then. You wore me down, motherfucker.”

Scalding tears of frustration and agony run unheeded down my face.

“And now you’re just going to fucking leave me here? Without a single word? At least you actually spoke to Alexei, or he imagined you or whatever. I can’t hear your voice even if I try to imagine it. Not even in my dreams, Lars. All of this might be easier if I could.

“But when I sit in this room or leave it, whether I’m asleep or awake, it’s like I can feel you, right there, so fucking close it feels like I could pluck you out of the air and bring you back—but I fucking can’t, Lars. I just can’t. And it’s killing me, I swear to God, you bastard, it’s fucking killing me.”

My words are harsh sobs.

“And I’m terrified it’s always going to be like this. That whether I let you go or leave you lying on that damn bed, either way I’ll be left with this empty place inside me that you claimed as your own. And that empty place isn’t just part of me—it’s just about fucking all of me, you Viking bastard. It was never just my body you took, or even my heart. It was my fucking soul.”

I collapse back into the chair, my breath coming in ragged sobs, dropping my head onto his inert hand, pushing against the maddeningly silent lean stillness of his body.

“You were supposed to be a Viking,” I whisper brokenly. “And Vikings fight. They fight like hell. So why the fuck won’t you fight for me, Lars? For us?”

I shake my head on the bed, punching the mattress with clenched fists. “And if you won’t fight for me, asshole, then tell me this—why the fuck should I keep fighting for you?”

I’m sobbing so hard it takes a minute to register that there’s something wrong with the beeping. It takes a few seconds more for me to realize it’s because there’s been a change in Lars’s heartbeat.

“Oh my God.” I surge out of my chair, standing over him, pressing the call button frantically. “Please.” I can barely get the word out.

There’s the faintest hint of movement, and my eyes lock on the hand on the mattress, the still fingers I’ve clutched so desperately for weeks now.

Did I imagine that?

His unbandaged eye flutters, and my heart stops.

It flickers open. Tries to focus, then rolls away.

“Lars?” I can barely say his name.

His eye flutters closed.

“Wake up!” I lean over him, barely resisting the urge to shake him as footsteps come hurrying down the corridor. “Fucking wake up, do you hear me?”

Then, just as the door slides open, his hand moves again.

“What happened?” The doctor in charge takes in the changed heart monitor. “Lars.” He goes to the other side of the bed. “Can you squeeze my hand?”

I shake my head dumbly. “Probably not.”

The doctor looks slightly annoyed at the stupid grin on my face. “Why not?”

“Because,” I manage through my tears, “he’s currently giving me the finger with his other one.”

50

Alexei

“Have you seen Benny?” I give my reflection a skeptical look. “He chose these fancy suits, so he’d better be wearing one of the damn things himself.”

“Darya’s got him running pretty hard.” Mickey adjusts his bow tie. “And I like the suits.”

“You would,” I say dryly. “You always were the playboy type.”