Chapter 90 Aurora Credit
RORY POV
Maids swarmed into the medical wing like a small army. They carried tray after tray of food, dishes l'd never even seen before, piled high with proteins and rich scents that made my stomach betray me. My eyes trailed them as they set everything on the table. It was far too much for one person, let alone a patient.
When they were done, they filed out one by one, leaving a heavy silence behind.
I turned back to Alexander. He was propped up against the pillows, his dark eyes already fixed on me.
"Are you going to eat all that?" I asked him, genuinely bewildered.
"They're all yours. Go and eat," he said in that flat, command-style tone that left no room for argument.
I blinked. He couldn't possibly expect me to finish a feast. I’d barely eaten since the attack. Not properly. My appetite had packed its bags and left the moment I’d seen him go down on that courtyard floor and it hadn’t fully returned yet, especially now that we knew the brotherhood was behind it. The idea of sitting down to a full meal while that information was still sitting in my chest felt almost offensive.
“I’m not hungry. I can grab a lasagna later.” I told him.
“I didn’t ask you, Aurora.” He didn’t raise his voice. He never needed to. There's no debating here. "Go and eat. You're losing too much weight." He let out a sharp exhale. "I might be the heartless jerk you hate, but I won't let you starve."
It's anything but hate. I looked away. I didn't hate the jerk at all, which was the most terrifying part.
"I didn't lose weight. You just think so because you got shot and your head is fuzzy," I pointed out.
He shook his head in disapproval, his gaze hardening. "Go over and eat, or else you'll leave me no choice but to stand up and shove the food down your throat yourself."
This is one of those stupid things he does that makes it so impossible to hate him properly. Nobody has ever cared whether I ate or not. Not really. If anything, for most of my life the people around me seemed quietly pleased when I ate less — like I was doing them a favor by taking up less space, by shrinking, by making my body more acceptable to look at. The world had made it very clear for a very long time that it preferred me smaller.
But my husband, apparently, does not.
He was ready to rip his stitches open just to make sure I had a full stomach.
“Can I ask you something first?”
"Aurora. Food." He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I'll eat once you answer me."
He let out a dry chuckle. "Fine. What is it?"
I sat with it for a moment before I said it. Part of me still wondered if I’d imagined it, if the shock and the blood and the cold ground had made my brain invent something it wanted to see.
“When you got shot,” I started carefully. “You — I don’t know. Maybe it was my mind. But I saw you sign. You signed to me. You told me not to cry.”
“That I did,” he said, acting like it was as simple as checking the time.
Like the man I had watched struggle with the most basic attempt to communicate with his own son hadn’t been lying on the ground with a bullet in his stomach signing full sentences to me in the dark.
“But — how?” My voice came out unsteady. “I thought you didn’t — I mean you never —”
“I took a six hour session and some YouTube lessons the day before,” he said.
I stared at him.
He had learned ASL. He had sat down and learned my language in a single day because I wouldn’t speak to him.
“You wouldn’t speak to me.” He said it simply, like the answer was obvious. “I wanted to communicate with my wife so I had to learn.” A short exhale, almost a scoff. “Though if I’d known getting shot would make you talk to me, I’d have done that instead and saved myself six hours.”
Why does he do this? Why does he do the most unexpected things for me and still insist I’m a replacement? Why does he keep reaching toward me with one hand while the other holds me at arm’s length? It makes no sense. He makes no sense.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
He looked at me like I’d said something in a language he didn’t recognize.
“What for?” he asked.
"No one has ever tried to do something like that for me. I know you probably did it because I have the same face as Ana, and you were desperate to hear her voice through me, so you had no choice but to learn—"
"Stop."
His voice was like a whip. His face went hard, his jaw locking so tight I thought it might crack.
He looked genuinely pissed.
"I didn't learn it because of Ana. I learned it for Aurora. Give yourself some credit sometimes."
I didn't know how to react. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. That was the first thing he'd ever given me that I truly owned. The first thing that wasn't a hand-me-down from a dead woman. He learned it for me. My throat tightened, and my eyes stung with fresh tears.
"I should... I should go and eat," I managed to say, standing up quickly. If I looked at him for one more second, I was going to break down.
He nodded, finally letting me go. I sat at the table and forced myself to eat. It had been so long since l'd had a real meal, and despite my nerves, the first bite of the protein made my body hum with relief.
His eyes never left me. He watched every move of my fork like he was cataloging my recovery.
"Aurora?"
I looked up, my mouth half-full.
"I'm going to find who breached the building and attacked our home. I'm going to find them, and I'm going to kill them. Nothing will harm you again. I swear it on my life."
Our home.
The intensity in his voice was overwhelming. I wanted to believe him. But I also knew this man. I knew how quickly the warmth could turn. How fast he could look straight through me to someone else. And if he switched on me again after this — after everything, after the signing and the bullet and the food on the table and I learned it for Aurora — I genuinely didn’t know if I’d survive it intact this time.
“You should focus on recovering first,” I said instead of all of that. “The doctor said you need rest.”
He still needed to heal. He was hooked up to monitors, and the nurses had to check his vitals every few hours to make sure the internal bleeding hadn't started again. But Alexander was adamant about getting out of bed. He wanted to kill, and he'd been very vocal about his other goal: he wanted to "fuck the sadness" out of me.
Alexander had no filter, and apparently, neither did his libido. I was just grateful he used protection, because with the way he was, I knew l'd have a house full of kids in no time.
Deep down, I realized I actually wanted them — his children. But I knew better than to bring that up. I didn't want to overstep my boundaries in his world.
"Focus on eating and stop staring at me," he commanded. "When you're done, bring your ass over here. I need to touch you."
I flushed red. I knew "touch" was a lie. If I got anywhere near that bed, my breast would end end up in his mouth again, and the last thing I wanted was the doctor walking in on us for a second day in a row. l'd wanted the ground to swallow me whole yesterday.
"I'm eating!" I snapped, shoving a piece of meat into my mouth to hide my smile.
"Good," he grunted. "Faster, Aurora. I'm losing my patience."
Author's note:
Alexander can be a sweetheart sometimes. To everyone reading, thank you so much.