chapter 121
Sebastian's POV:
The remnants of lunch sat between us like a battlefield.
I watched Lucas finally gather his things, those calculated movements that spoke of a man who'd lost this particular round but hadn't surrendered the war.
His parting words about "speedy recovery" rang hollow in the sterile hospital air, and I didn't bother acknowledging them beyond a curt nod.
Elena remained by my side, her fingers unconsciously smoothing the edge of my blanket as we listened to his footsteps fade down the corridor.
The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have, weighted with unspoken questions and the lingering presence of a man who had no business inserting himself into our lives.
When she finally moved to clear the dishes, I caught her wrist, gentle but firm.
"Leave them," I murmured, tugging her closer until she perched on the edge of my bed. "The staff will handle it."
She studied my face with those perceptive eyes that had learned to read my moods too well. "You're upset," she observed, not a question but a statement tinged with concern.
I pulled her hand to my chest, pressing her palm against my heart where it beat steadily despite the darkness creeping at the edges of my thoughts. "Not upset," I corrected, though the words tasted like a half-truth. "Just... thinking."
"About what?" Her thumb traced absent patterns against my hospital gown, and I closed my eyes, letting myself sink into that simple touch.
"About healing," I admitted, the confession scraping raw against my throat.
The fear had been building since I'd woken up in this damned bed, the doctors' careful non-answers about my legs haunting me.
"Elena, I'm going to get better. I promise you that. Even if..." I forced myself to continue, "even if my legs don't fully recover, even if I can't walk the same way again, I won't be a burden to you. I'll find a way to—"
Her intake of breath was sharp, and then her hands were framing my face, forcing me to meet her gaze. The fierce protectiveness in her expression made something in my chest constrict painfully.
"Stop," she said with quiet certainty. "You could never be a burden to me. I believe you'll recover. But even if things don't go back to exactly how they were, I'll be right here. By your side."
I turned my face into her palm, pressing a kiss there that was equal parts gratitude and possession.
When she leaned down to brush her lips against mine, soft and achingly tender, I let myself believe her promise.
---
Days blurred together after that, winter grudgingly giving way to early spring.
Elena had claimed a spot on the small terrace attached to my suite, transforming it into an impromptu studio.
The sun was weak but persistent, casting her in a golden glow that made her look almost ethereal. Seven months pregnant now, she moved with deliberate care.
I watched her work, completely absorbed in her sketching.
The ring design—my ring—had become her primary project these past weeks.
She'd shown me various iterations: bold, subtle, classical, modern. But something in her expression suggested she'd finally found the right approach.
Her pencil moved with confident strokes, occasionally pausing as she tilted her head, considering.
I watched her work with a possessive satisfaction that went beyond mere appreciation. This ring—this unexpected gift she'd decided to create for me after the accident—felt like more than jewelry.
It was her mark on me, her claim, born from some impulse to compensate for my injuries or perhaps to balance the weight of the ring I'd placed on her finger.
Whatever her reasons, I'd already decided: the moment that ring touched my finger, it would never come off.
Mine. The word had always come so easily when I thought of her. It would be her creativity wrapped around my finger, her thoughts made tangible in metal and stone.
My grandmother had sent her personal chef to ensure Elena ate properly during her visits, transforming the suite's small kitchenette into a gourmet operation.
The scent of something rich and savory drifted from that direction now, making my stomach growl despite the bland hospital diet I'd been subjected to.
"Mrs. Vane?" The chef—Mrs. Chen, a small woman with kind eyes who'd been with our family for decades—peered around the partition. "The oyster gratin is ready. Should I call Mrs. Elena inside?"
I glanced at my wife through the window again, noting how she'd paused in her sketching to rub her lower back.
She must have smelled the food because she was already packing up her supplies. When she entered the suite, her cheeks were pink from the cool air, and she was smiling.
"That smells incredible," she said, settling into the chair beside my bed with a small sigh of relief.
The pregnancy pillow I'd had delivered last week cushioned her back.
Mrs. Chen presented the oyster gratin with a flourish, the golden-brown cheese crust crackling enticingly. Elena's eyes lit up.
"Thank you, Mrs. Chen," Elena said warmly, already reaching for the serving spoon. "Would you like some? There's more than enough."
The chef demurred politely, retreating to the kitchenette with promises of more options waiting in the warmer.
I watched Elena take her first bite, the way her eyes fluttered closed in appreciation, and felt that now-familiar surge of satisfaction.
"Good?" I asked, though the answer was obvious from her expression.
"Incredible," she confirmed, already loading her fork again. Then, in a gesture that had become routine over these past weeks, she prepared a bite and offered it to me. "Try some."
I opened obediently. The flavors burst across my tongue—briny oysters, sharp cheese, the subtle heat of white pepper.
"Not bad," I conceded, though we both knew it was far better than the bland proteins and steamed vegetables that comprised my current diet.
Elena smiled, pleased, and continued alternating bites between us.
That afternoon, when Elena returned home to pick up some belongings, I had the doctor come over.
"What's the absolute fastest recovery timeline?" I demanded without preamble.
Doctor's gray eyes assessed me carefully. "Three months. Minimum."
"Three months?" The words came out sharper than intended.
My mind raced through the calendar. Elena's birthday was coming. I needed to recover before her birthday.