“You’re a bigger man than me,” Hunter said.
Brea wanted to correct him. Cutter had never been her boyfriend and Pierce hadn’t raped her. But Joaquin quickly shook Cutter’s hand, then nodded her way, before he lifted the duffel at his feet and headed out. Hunter did the same.
She sighed. Their opinions weren’t important. Right now, she needed to focus all her energy on Pierce and his recovery.
But the hours waiting for news dragged on. She refused breakfast, choosing instead to pace and pray and worry how she would cope if the worst happened. For possibly the first time in her life, Cutter was unable to soothe or console her.
Finally, at ten a.m., a nurse sought them out. “Ms. Bell? Your fiancé is out of recovery and back in his room. He’s not conscious yet, but visiting hours have begun, so you’re welcome to sit with him.”
Relief filled her. She snatched her purse up from her abandoned seat. “Thank you. I’ll follow you.”
Cutter fell in behind her. “Fiancé?”
She shot him a glare over her shoulder and silently shushed him. Later, she’d take the time and energy to explain that was the only way the hospital staff had been willing to bend the rules. Now was about laying eyes on Pierce.
But nothing could have prepared Brea for the sight of him lying so bruised, half-starved, and lifeless in the sterile hospital bed. Both his eyes were black and swollen shut. Another massive hematoma covered the side of his head, which flared with a goose-egg-size knot and had been shaved to reveal an ugly, multicolored wound. The respirator covering his nose and mouth were the least of her concerns once she saw the stitches in various places on his scalp and the drain taking fluid from his brain to a bag near the bed. Bandages pinned his right arm in place and more surrounded both legs.
The sight of him so broken took Brea to her knees. “Pierce…”
Cutter was right there to pick her up and help her into the chair he rolled to One-Mile’s bedside. He stood beside her, palming his face. “Jesus…”
“He’s in bad shape,” the nurse said. “If it had taken you and your friends even another hour to get him medical attention…”
The shake of the older woman’s head said what Brea could see with her own two eyes. He would have died.
Brea pressed a hand over her mouth to silence her fear, anger, and grief. They wouldn’t help him now. Only her love and her positive thoughts might.
It had been almost a month since she’d asked Pierce for space, but not a day had gone by that he hadn’t crowded into her thoughts. Now she was ashamed for avoiding him, for assuming they had all the time in the world for her to sort out her feelings, for being too afraid of everyone else’s reactions to open her heart to him.
That stopped now.
“What can I do?” she asked.
The nurse shrugged. “Sit with him. Hold his hand. Talk to him.”
“Even though he can’t hear me?”
“On some level, I think he can. He’ll feel you. If there’s a TV show he likes, play it. If there’s a book he enjoys, read it to him. Pray for him.”
“I will. Thank you.”
It struck Brea that she knew Pierce on an almost painfully intimate level as a man—his scent, his kiss, his growl when he found pleasure—but she knew almost nothing about him as a person. She didn’t know his TV preferences or reading habits. Did he have any food allergies? Weird quirks? She’d never asked about his past, his hopes, his concerns. They’d never discussed his politics, his religion, or his beliefs.
That realization left her feeling ashamed and distressed. She hadn’t taken the time to learn him before allowing their incendiary chemical attraction to overwhelm her good sense. And now she might never have the chance to learn the real, true Pierce Walker.
Something else to mourn.
She reached for his big hand. It, too, was bruised. And battered. But she held it between hers and closed her eyes, feeling tears burn down her cheeks. “You’re not alone anymore. I’m here.”
No response. Not that she’d expected one. But she’d wanted it. She’d wanted the miracle. Some foolish part of her had hoped that she could heal him with her caring and her touch.
Cutter dropped a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t lose faith.”
He was right. This was the real world. The miracle would be Pierce surviving.
She met his glance. “I’ll keep praying.”
“I’ve never known anyone with a bigger heart. I don’t know everything he did to you—”
“Don’t.” She couldn’t talk about that night with Cutter. “Not now.”
He held up his hands. “I won’t. But your capacity to forgive is humbling.”
Pierce had done nothing that required forgiveness, and she didn’t want to waste the energy defending him now when he needed her more. “It isn’t.”
Because she hadn’t forgiven herself for being human, for being weak in the face of temptation. But in some ways, she’d cast Pierce into the role of her personal Satan. It had been so easy to believe he’d lured her with his attention, his masculinity, his sexuality. He might have seduced her…but she had let him. And deep down, she’d blamed him. He had taken her breath away. He had overwhelmed her.
It had been so unfair. Pierce hadn’t done anything except be himself. Acknowledging that painful truth made her want to cry. She needed to accept the blame for her own actions—and not let well-meaning people like Cutter and Daddy tell her she was too good to be at fault.
She would also have to decide what—if anything—came next for her and Pierce.
But the days of turning her back on him simply because she didn’t have the strength to confront her own moral fragility were over.
“Would you mind leaving me alone with him?”
Cutter hesitated. “Are you sure?”
That she was ready to handle this, no. But she needed to. “Yes.”
“All right. I’ll, um, get us a motel room and wait
