Chapter 218
Aria's POV
Two days passed in a medicated haze. I drifted between consciousness and dreams, fragments of the yacht, the gunfire, and the island flashing behind my eyelids.
When I finally emerged from the fog, I found myself in an unfamiliar room. Sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, casting soft patterns across walls adorned with minimalist artwork. This wasn't the medical facility where I'd last been conscious. The sheets beneath me were Egyptian cotton, not hospital-grade linens, and the air carried a subtle hint of sandalwood rather than antiseptic.
I struggled to sit up, wincing as pain lanced through my shoulder. The pristine bandage wrapped around it was stark white against my skin. Moving to the window, I leaned against the sill, taking in the unmistakable Manhattan skyline. Somehow, I'd been transported back to New York—specifically, to Devon Kane's private quarters at Eden.
The door opened, and Devon stepped in, his eyes immediately finding mine. He wore a tailored gray suit that accentuated his broad shoulders, his expression unreadable as his gaze dropped to the untouched bowl of lobster bisque on the nightstand.
"The doctor says you need to eat." His voice was calm but carried an undercurrent of authority that made it clear this wasn't a suggestion.
I attempted a weak smile. "I don't have much appetite." Hesitating, I voiced the question that had been gnawing at me since waking. "When can I go back to my apartment? I have work that needs handling."
Devon crossed the room, stopping close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "When you're fully recovered." His fingers brushed my injured shoulder with unexpected gentleness. "The security here is more comprehensive."
I wanted to argue, to insist on returning to my own space and regaining control over my life, but the throbbing pain in my shoulder served as a stark reminder of how close I'd come to losing everything.
Devon guided me toward a more spacious bedroom, withdrawing medical supplies from a drawer. "Sit," he commanded, gesturing to the edge of the bed.
I instinctively clutched at the loose silk robe covering me, a blush warming my cheeks. Devon's lips curved into a slight smirk.
"Relax. The last nurse who tried to change your dressing nearly lost her fingers. You were delirious with fever and apparently quite combative."
"I don't remember that," I murmured, embarrassed.
As Devon carefully peeled back the bandage, I couldn't suppress a sharp intake of breath. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead as I bit down hard on my lower lip, determined not to show weakness.
His brow furrowed as he examined the angry red skin surrounding the wound. "Infection," he stated flatly. His fingers applied antibiotic ointment with surprising delicacy. "This will hurt," he warned, his voice softening momentarily.
The pain made my vision swim, but I refused to cry out. Devon worked methodically, his movements precise and confident, as though he'd done this countless times before. I wondered about the scars I'd glimpsed on his own body during our time on the island—who had tended to those wounds?
Later, Devon led me to a private dining room within the suite, activating an intercom system. "Low-sodium vegetable broth, poached chicken breast, and fresh fruit. Deliver it within ten minutes."
"I really don't—" I began to protest.
"This isn't a request, Aria." His eyes locked with mine. "You need to regain your strength."
When the food arrived, Devon shocked me by personally lifting a spoonful of the steaming broth to my lips. I stared at him, unable to reconcile this intimate gesture with the ruthless businessman who dominated boardrooms and eliminated rivals without remorse. This wasn't the public face of Devon Kane that the world knew.
After a moment's hesitation, I accepted his offering, the warm liquid soothing my throat. Under his unwavering attention, I gradually consumed most of the meal, finding myself oddly comforted by his insistence on caring for me.
Our quiet moment was interrupted by a commotion in the hallway. The door opened, and Roman appeared, his expression strained as he knelt just outside the threshold.
"Mr. Kane, please reconsider Lucas's situation," he pleaded, voice trembling. "He made a mistake—he didn't intentionally harm Ms. Harper."
Devon's face became a mask of cold indifference. "Harm is harm, regardless of intent." He gestured to the security personnel behind Roman. "Remove him."
"Wait," I interjected, surprising myself. "I want to see him."
Devon turned to me, eyebrow raised. "Are you certain? The sight won't be pleasant."
I met his gaze steadily. "I need to face those who would harm us." The word "us" slipped out unintentionally, and I noticed the subtle shift in Devon's expression—a momentary softening before his features resumed their usual impassivity.
In that moment, I realized how deeply intertwined our lives had become. Devon's chains of protection and control had gradually transformed into something more complex—a connection neither of us had anticipated when we first struck our deal. As I followed him from the room, I wondered if I was walking toward clarity or deeper into a beautiful prison of our own making.
Now, as Devon led me through Eden's labyrinthine corridors, each step felt heavier than the last. His hand rested lightly at the small of my back, steadying me when I faltered. We descended into what appeared to be a basement level, the air growing noticeably damper and cooler. The metallic scent of blood hit me before we even reached our destination.
Devon pushed open a heavy door, revealing a dimly lit room. In the center sat Lucas, bound to a metal chair. His face was swollen, one eye completely shut, and his breathing came in shallow, pained gasps. My stomach contracted violently.
"This," Devon said, leaning against the wall and watching me carefully, "is the price for harming you. He fired the shot that led to your injury."
I recalled Devon's words from one of our earliest encounters: "Anyone who hurts me doesn't get a second chance." Clearly, the same principle applied to those who hurt me. The realization sent a conflicting wave of both unease and security through me.
"Give me your gun," I said, my voice steadier than I expected.