Beth Kery - Because We Belong

“But . . . won’t the police protest about me altering evidence at a crime scene? What about if Gerard lives? What if he goes on trial for attempted murder?”

His nostrils flared and his eyes flashed. “I don’t care what the hell the police think. Do you want other people seeing that video? A courtroom? It would kill you, and so it would kill me in turn. If the truth comes out that the tapes were erased, I’ll take the blame.”

A shudder went through her as the full impact of what he was saying hit. She nodded dazedly. “But I’m supposed to press on the wound.”

“I’ll do it while you’re gone,” he muttered, moving his left hand on top of hers, wincing at the movement. “Go on.”

She returned a minute later, having followed his instructions as best she could. They’d just have to deal with it if Gerard had other copies of the video somewhere and they came to light in the investigation.

“Now get dressed,” he said, his rigid jaw making her think he was in increasing pain.

She lowered next to him after she’d hastily dressed, taking over pressing on the wound and using the towel she’d discarded to cover him. She was glad to see the circle of blood on the towel on his shoulder hadn’t grown much in her absence. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be all right.”

“I know,” he said.

She stifled a bark of hysterical laughter. Arrogant even now. “ How do you know?”

“Because I didn’t go through all this, only to die now,” he said dryly. “It’s just the shoulder,” he said, wincing as he moved slightly. “It burns like hell.”

“Keep still,” she scolded. She lowered her head, kissing his lips softly. Fervently. She raised her head until their faces were only inches apart.

“Do you want to know who you are, Ian?” she said, her voice vibrating with emotion. “This is who you are. This. ”

His eyes glittered as their gazes locked. He didn’t speak, but she knew he’d understood. It might have been his last act on this earth, for all he’d known, covering her body with his to protect her, an act of selflessness.

Of love.

Francesca swam in a woozy dream world, aware of several people talking. Her exhaustion was such that she had to struggle for all she was worth to surface into consciousness.

It’s important. Wake up.

She blinked open her eyes at her own voice in her head. It took her a second to recall where she was—in the hospital in Cabourg where the ambulances had taken Ian, Lucien, and Gerard after they’d arrived on the scene. The images and horror of what had occurred—the blood seeping from Ian’s wound, the arrival of the emergency personnel, being questioned by police at the hospital while she was so distracted, worrying about Ian and Lucien. Ian had lost consciousness while they’d been in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, amplifying her anxiety and fear. She’d worried he was wounded more severely than his manner led her to believe just following the shooting. He stabilized quickly once at the hospital, however, and was soon declared ready for surgery to extract the bullet in his shoulder.

It was now the second morning after the whole bizarre nightmare. Ian was recovering well following surgery. Lucien was fine, and was discharged from the hospital last evening soon after Elise had arrived. Gerard, on the other hand, had not yet regained consciousness. The doctors had been struggling to stabilize him before attempting surgery, but his condition was severe. The bullet had entered his abdomen, causing a great deal of internal organ damage and bleeding, but the trajectory had been upward, hitting one of his lungs as well.

The nurse last night had taken pity on Francesca when she saw her slumped in an upright chair near Ian’s bed. She’d refused to leave his side, despite Anne and James’s arrival and insistence she should check in to a hotel and get a few hours sleep. The nurse had encouraged Francesca to sleep in the extra bed in Ian’s room at around three-thirty in the morning. Once Ian had awakened following his surgery and conversed with her a little, she’d been better prepared to rest. She’d staggered over to the empty bed and fallen into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

“No, of course I understand,” she heard Ian saying as she pushed herself off the mattress. She was heartened to hear that his voice sounded strong and rested, if concerned. “You needn’t have asked my permission. Of course you should go.”

“You’re sure?” Anne asked quietly.

“Because we won’t, if you don’t want it. After what Gerard did, I’d understand completely,” James said. Sadness swept through Francesca at hearing the weight in James’s voice. He’d been hurt the most by Gerard’s blatant treachery.

“I’m not the judge of whether or not Gerard should die alone,” Ian said. “Go. Sit with him. He’s family.”

“My sister’s son—” James broke off. Someone made a choking sound. Francesca walked around the curtain and saw James with his face in his hand, obviously undone. Her heart seized in anguish at the sight. Anne gave her a helpless glance. Francesca couldn’t think of what to say. Anne took her husband’s hand and led him from the room.

Francesca walked next to Ian’s bed. He looked at her bleakly from where he lay propped up in the hospital bed in order to take pressure off the surgical site. She touched his hairline and dropped a kiss on his temple, inhaling his scent greedily for reassurance. She was relieved to see his coloring was better than it’d been last night, when he was still groggy from the anesthesia.

“Gerard isn’t expected to last much longer,” he said. “My grandparents were asking permission to sit with him until the end.”

She closed her eyes. It’d been what she expected to hear, but she hated to think of James and Anne’s suffering. They’d already dealt with so much in their lives. The betrayal of Gerard, whom they considered as almost a son, seemed too cruel to consider.

“Are you feeling all right?” Ian asked her, his gaze moving over her face.

She smoothed her hair and nodded. “Yes. I was out cold for a few hours. How about you? How does the shoulder feel?”

“Okay. They’re giving me something for the pain,” he said, taking her hand. “Sit down,” he directed. She came down at the edge of the bed, her hip brushing against his. She studied every detail of his features hungrily . . . worriedly. His lips tilted in amusement.

“You don’t have to look at me like I’m a tragic poster child, Francesca. I’ll be fine,” Ian told her pointedly.

“I know. I know you’ll be fine physically,” she assured both him and herself. “I’m just worried about the effect of what Gerard did.”

“On my fragile psyche, you mean?” he asked, his small grin widening slightly.

She gave him a repressive look. “You have to admit, you’ve been through an awful lot lately. Is it a surprise I’m worried about your finding out someone you loved—a part of your family—betrayed you?”

She brushed her fingertips across his mouth when it hardened, lowering her caress to his whiskered jaw. “I suppose not,” he murmured. “But you shouldn’t worry. It’s different than my mother and the discovery of Trevor Gaines.”

“How?”

He shook his head. “It’s hard to explain. It doesn’t feel as . . . personal. It was a shock, and I’m stunned that he hated me so much and I never realized. Gerard’s desire for revenge seems sadder than anything,” he muttered under his breath. “I’d feel bad for him if he hadn’t pissed me off to no end for what he did to you, recording you that way.”

“Surely his bigger crime was trying to kill us,” Francesca pointed out.