Page 92 of Bloodstained Wings
Reluctantly, we back out of the room, keeping our eyes on them the entire time. We walk backward, guns still aimed at them, until we reach the elevator. In the elevator, I try dialing Tristan, but I can’t get through to him. Cursing, I barely keep from throwing my phone against the wall. Instead, I nearly punch a hole in the elevator wall because I can only see red.
I can’t tell if I’m madder at Floyd Philips or Isabella.
I’m dimly aware of getting back into Ernesto’s SUV and the car speeding through traffic. It screeches and swerves, but I don’t look up from my screen. I send Tristan one angry message after the other, but he’s still not answering. Eventually, I hurl my phone at the window closest to me, and it bounces back and lands unharmed on the leather seat next to me.
After pouring myself a generous amount of whiskey, I press my face into the cool glass.
During the ride to the hospital, I picture all the ways I’m going to punish Isabella.
And it immediately sends red-hot desire racing through me. I grip my glass a little tighter than necessary and watch the world outside, a blur of shapes and colors that rush past the SUV. When the hospital looms in the distance, the large metal building bathed in the pale glow of the moon, my stomach clenches.
It lurches and dips when Ernesto screeches to a halt, and I hurry out of the car.
I push my way through the double doors and past the main desk, filled with men and women in uniform and a slew of phones that won’t stop ringing. In the elevator, I have to dig my nails into my palms to keep from doing something stupid. When the doors ping open on the floor where Isabella’s dad is being kept, I race out.
I shove my way past doctors and nurses in scrubs who give me angry looks on the way past.
None of it stops me until I reach the room. There, I find Isabella on the bed, with the cover drawn up to her chin and an IV drip in her vein. As soon as I register what I’m seeing, some of the anger leaves my body, and I duck my head outside, my eyes darting up and down the hallway. I gesture to a nurse in pink scrubs, and she hurries over, her ponytail swishing back and forth.
“What the fuck happened to my girlfriend? Why is she in a hospital bed, and why wasn’t I informed?”
“Mr. Blackthorne, I have no idea why they didn’t call you,” she stutters as she takes a few steps back. “Ms. Julis came in, and she was really agitated and looking for her father. When she couldn’t find him, the doctor was paged.”
I take a menacing step toward the nurse, who shrinks back and presses against the wall. “Where the fuck is Alan Julis? Why was he moved without our knowledge?”
It’s no wonder Isabella has lost consciousness.
He’s the only family she has left, and not knowing where he is must’ve taken a toll on her. I soften toward Isabella as I drift closer to her side, and she stirs awake. When she sees me, her eyes widen and sharpen into focus. Then she bursts into tears and presses her forehead against my chest.
“What happened, dove? Give me a name, and I’ll make them pay.”
Isabella only cries harder. “You can’t fix this, Carter. I know you want to, but you can’t. No one can.”
I draw back and frame her face in my hands. “You won’t know unless you tell me. I take care of you, don’t I? Tell me what happened, and I’ll make it better.”
Isabella’s expression is crestfallen when she licks her dry lips. “I thought they moved him, then I thought maybe the Natoris or the Philipses got to him, but he… my father is…”
I grip her shoulders tighter. “Tell me.”
“He’s dead,” Isabella says, her voice barely above a whisper. “He died this morning, and they couldn’t get a hold of me because of my stupid cell service. He died alone, surrounded by strangers, and I wasn’t there for him because of my goddamn phone.”
I hold her tighter and run my fingers down the length of her back. “It’s not your fault, dove. It’s not like you knew this was going to happen.”
Isabella shudders and pulls back to look at me. “I should’ve known. He’s my father. After everything he’s done for me… I just left him all alone in this hospital.”
My chest gives an odd little twinge as I place my hand on either side of her shoulders. “You can’t blame yourself—”
“Yes, I can fucking can.” Isabella shoves my hands away and rips the IV out of her arm. Little droplets of blood spray the bed, and some of it lands on her nose. But she doesn’t seem to care. Even with a hospital gown thrown over her clothes and her hair a wild mess on top of her head, she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Like some kind of fierce avenging angel, ready to swoop down and teach the mortals a lesson.
I’ve never loved her more than in that moment. Nor have I ever been more worried about her.
Over the past few months, I’ve seen all kinds of sides to her, everything from hungry and frustrated to frightened and determined and wildly horny, but I’ve never seen Isabella like this. It’s almost as if she’s on the verge of combusting, intent on destroying everything in her path, and there’s nothing I can do to help her.
Not a damn fucking thing.
I wish I could take away her pain.