Killian Archer looked wrong in a hospital bed.
Even half propped against white pillows, even with the private suite, armed guards at the door, and the city glittering beyond the darkened windows like it still belonged to him, he looked wrong. Men like Killian were not supposed to be still. They were supposed to pace and command and terrify. They were supposed to fill a room with danger.
Not lie in one, pale beneath the expensive sheets, a bandage hidden under his black T-shirt and the IV line taped to his arm like an insult.
Isla stood at the window with her arms crossed over her chest, trying not to stare. She had spent the last six days watching him recover, learning the difference between anger and pain in the tightness around his mouth, learning how often he woke from sleep reaching for a gun that wasn't there, learning how impossible it was to stop loving a man built from violence and secrets.
He was stronger today. Strong enough to be impossible again.
