Hazel's pov
We finally stopped to catch our breath, and I seized the chance to question him.
"What was that about? Why did we leave the villa so suddenly?"
"I think Liam already knew about it," he explained. "I suspected he might have found out, but I needed to confirm since it was still the only shelter we could rely on. Two of his men escaped earlier, and I'm certain they must have told him. That's why everyone evacuated before he arrived."
My eyes widened in shock. "Wait—what did you just say? You already suspected, yet you still insisted we go there? Why take that risk? What if Liam's men had been waiting, ready to ambush us? We could've walked straight into a slaughterhouse," I snapped, frustration bubbling inside me.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I should have told you before moving forward with the plan. I took the risk without asking you."
His quick apology disarmed me, and my anger slipped away. I let out a long breath. "Fine… Then where do we go now?"
"There's a hotel nearby. It's not well-known because of where it's located," he replied. I nodded slowly, relief flickering in me when he added, "We can get food and water there too." His faint smile caught me off guard.
"Then let's head there," I said eagerly. He smiled back and led the way.
But after an hour of walking, I realized the place wasn't as close as he made it sound. We pressed on without stopping until the hotel finally came into view. It was a tall building, plain and unimpressive from the outside—its white walls didn't stand out at all. But when we stepped inside, my jaw nearly dropped.
The interior was breathtaking. Beautifully designed, every detail radiated elegance. I couldn't help but stare in awe.
"Good afternoon, sir," the receptionist greeted politely.
"Do you have two rooms available?" Colton asked, glancing briefly at me.
"I'm afraid not," the man said apologetically. "Only one room is free—the rest are under renovation."
Colton turned to me. "Hazel, what do you think?" For a second, I froze, but then I nodded quickly.
"We'll take the room," he said, and the receptionist handed him the key with a smile. "It's on the fourth floor. There's a phone inside if you need anything."
Colton gave him a curt nod and motioned for me to follow. We took the elevator, and when he opened the door to our room, I nearly forgot how to breathe.
The walls shimmered with golden patterns, and tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a stunning view of the city below. At the center stood a king-sized bed draped with silk sheets and pillows that looked fit for royalty.
But what truly captivated me was the display of rare artifacts and priceless art that adorned the space. Whoever designed this room spared no expense—it was luxury in its purest form.
Colton's concerned voice pulled me from my daze. "Do you like the room?"
Like it? The word felt laughably small for how stunning it was. "I love it," I beamed. His shoulders eased, and I realized he'd been worried I might dislike it.
I glanced at his injuries and stepped closer. "You should change… maybe bathe first, and then I'll dress your wounds," I told him softly, searching his eyes for hesitation. But he only nodded and began removing his clothes.
As he disappeared into the bathroom, I sat on the bed, sinking into the soft mattress. It embraced me like a gentle caress.
When the door opened again, Everett emerged—only a towel slung low around his waist. My eyes nearly leapt from their sockets at the sight of his bare, sculpted chest glistening with droplets of water. His damp hair clung to his face until he brushed it back with his hand.
"You should take a bath too," he murmured in a husky tone.
I bolted up from the bed and escaped into the bathroom, sinking into the cool bathwater. The tension in my muscles melted away, but I forced myself out quickly, wrapping a towel around me.
When I stepped back into the room, Colton was already on the bed. He had slipped into trousers, though his torso was still bare. His eyes flicked toward me, a glint of something unreadable flashing before he turned away. Clearing his throat, he said quietly, "I asked for a first aid kit. If you're ready, we can start."
I nodded and quickly dressed before returning. Sitting beside him, I picked up the kit, my gaze fixed on his broad back. The sight of the deep wound made me swallow hard. Without wasting time, I began tending to it, though I knew he must have been in pain—he hid it far too well.
"Can I see the one on your abdomen?" I asked gently. He turned slowly, and as I cleaned and dressed the wound, my fingers brushed against his skin. Suddenly, an image flashed in my mind—me treating his wounds before, in some remote place.
The memory struck like lightning. I froze, shaken by the familiarity I couldn't explain.
Then I felt his hand, warm under my chin, gently tilting my face upward. "What's wrong? You're crying," he asked softly, his brows knitting together.
Startled, I touched my cheek. Sure enough, tears streaked down my face.
"What happened?" His voice came again, thick with concern.
I opened my mouth, but words failed me. All I could do was drown in his eyes.
For reasons I couldn't understand, my heart ached for him. Lifting my hand, I reached out and brushed the furrow between his brows.
"I don't know," I
whispered honestly. "This frown… you look otherworldly without it."