Chapter 122 The Wounded Beast
Elena: POV
I glanced one last time at the operating room where my mother was fighting for her life, the red light above the door glowing ominously. The surgeon had said it would be at least two more hours.
Looking at his weakened state, something twisted painfully in my chest. His fingers found mine, trembling slightly as he whispered, "Could you stay with me for a while?" The vulnerability in his voice—so unlike the commanding Julian I knew—made it impossible to refuse.
So I followed the nurse who had wheeled him out, my heart heavy with conflicting emotions, as she led me down the sterile corridor to his room.
The nurse pushed open the door to room 318 and carefully maneuvered Julian's wheelchair inside. He was still groggy from the anesthesia, his head lolling slightly as the medication made him drowsy. The room was small but comfortable, with pale blue walls and a large window overlooking the hospital's courtyard garden.
"Let's get you into bed, Mr. Blackwood," the nurse said gently, positioning the wheelchair beside the hospital bed. She was middle-aged with kind eyes and steady hands.
I moved to his other side without thinking. "I'll help," I said quietly.
Together, we carefully supported Julian as he struggled to stand on unsteady legs. His good arm wrapped around my shoulders for balance, and I could feel how heavily he was leaning on me.
"Easy," I murmured as we guided him toward the bed. "Take your time."
But as Julian tried to sit down on the edge of the mattress, his legs gave out slightly. His good arm tightened around me reflexively, and suddenly I was being pulled down with him.
I landed partially across his chest, my hand accidentally pressing against his bandaged shoulder.
He let out a sharp hiss of pain, his face going white.
"Oh god, I'm sorry—" I started to scramble away, but his arm held me in place with surprising strength for someone who'd just been shot.
"Mr. Blackwood, let me check your bandages," the nurse said, stepping forward with concern. "That might have pulled at your stitches."
"No," Julian said firmly, his voice still slurred but determined. His arm tightened around me protectively. "I'm fine. She's here—that's all I need."
The nurse paused, looking between us with a knowing smile. "Well, if you're sure..." She glanced at me with gentle amusement. "Just be careful not to put pressure on his left shoulder, okay? And make sure he doesn't try to be too heroic—he needs rest."
I nodded, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.
"I'll be back to check on you in an hour," the nurse said, gathering her supplies. "Press the call button if you need anything."
After she left, Julian finally loosened his grip enough for me to shift carefully to his uninjured side.
The hospital bed was narrow, forcing us closer together than I would have liked.
His eyes were heavy with medication, but he was looking at me with such intensity that it made my breath catch.
"Thank you," he said softly, his voice rough with emotion and exhaustion.
"For what?"
"For staying with me." His good hand found mine, fingers intertwining weakly but deliberately. "For being here when I woke up. I was afraid you'd leave—that you'd walk away and I'd never see you again."
I stared at him, my emotions a complete mess I couldn't begin to sort through. The afternoon light streaming through the window cast shadows across his face, highlighting the exhaustion and pain written in every line.
This man whose blood was still drying on my clothes.
This man who'd thrown himself in front of a bullet meant for me.
I never thought he'd actually do it. Never thought Julian Blackwood—selfish, calculating Julian—would risk his life for anyone, especially me.
"I need to shower," I said flatly, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm covered in your blood."
"After." His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist, the movement weak and unsteady but achingly tender. "Please, Elena. Just...stay a little longer."
Something in his tone made my throat tight. He sounded almost...afraid. Lost. Like he was the one who needed saving now, not me.
I shouldn't have cared. I didn't care.
But I stayed.
"Fine," I muttered, settling more carefully against his uninjured side. "But I'm washing up after this."
Julian's face relaxed slightly, though I could see the pain etched around his eyes. His good arm came around my waist, pulling me closer against him. I could feel him trembling slightly—shock, pain, exhaustion, maybe all three.
"You're such a fucking dictator," I said, but there was no heat in it. I was too tired, too overwhelmed by everything that had happened.
Julian buried his face in my hair, his breathing uneven against my scalp. "I know."
We sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds the steady beep of his heart monitor and the distant hum of hospital activity. I could feel his heart beating against my shoulder—fast, unsteady.
The weight of what had happened hit me like a truck. He could have died. He should have died. That bullet had been meant for my heart, and he'd stepped directly into its path without hesitation.
"Why?" The word slipped out before I could stop it.
"Why what?"
"Why did you do it?" I pulled back to look at him, searching his face for answers I wasn't sure I wanted to hear. "You could have been killed."
Julian's eyes met mine, and for once, there was no arrogance there. No calculation or manipulation. Just raw, devastating honesty.
"Because losing you would have killed me anyway."
My breath caught. I wanted to argue, to tell him he was being dramatic, but the sincerity in his voice stopped me cold.
"I never thought..." I started, then stopped. "I never thought you'd actually—"
"Risk my life for you?" Julian's good hand cupped my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with gentle reverence. "Elena, I'd do it again. Every time."
"Don't say that."
"You're not dying, you dramatic asshole." But my voice cracked on the words.
Julian smiled—a real smile, soft and tired and more genuine than any expression I'd ever seen on his face. "Promise me something."
"What?"
"Promise me you won't disappear while I'm sleeping."
I looked at his face—really looked at him. Saw the fear there, beneath the pain and exhaustion. This powerful man, reduced to begging me not to leave him alone in a sterile hospital room.
"I promise," I said softly.
Julian's eyes fluttered closed, relief washing over his features. His grip on me loosened as the medication finally pulled him under, his breathing evening out into the deep rhythm of medicated sleep.
I stayed there, watching him sleep. For the first time since I'd known him, Julian Blackwood looked peaceful.
Then there was a knock at the door.
I carefully extracted myself from Julian's arms, making sure not to jostle his injured shoulder. He didn't wake—just made a small sound of protest in his sleep, his hand reaching unconsciously for where I'd been.
"Come in," I called softly.
The door opened. A nurse—young, cheerful—poked her head in.
"Ms. Vance," she said, her tone warm with good news. "Your mother is out of surgery now. Would you like to go see her?"
The relief that flooded through me was so intense I nearly collapsed. Mom was okay. She was okay.
"Thank you," I managed, my voice cracking with emotion. "Can I—can I go now?"
"Of course. Room 314, just down the hall."
The nurse left, and I stood there for a moment, looking back at Julian. He looked younger in sleep, the harsh lines of pain smoothed away, his dark hair falling across his forehead.
I leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. "Thank you."
Before leaving, I left a note on his bedside table, [My mom's awake; I have to go see her.]