“Elliot,” she rasped, her voice still rough from the tube that had been down her throat, helping her breathe. “The sheets are fine. The room is fine.”
He turned to her with that crease between his eyebrows that appeared whenever he was worried—which, lately, seemed to be his permanent expression. “The ventilation system in here is ancient.”
Annnd there it was. Did she know her man or what? She laughed softly and winced at the spike of pain it caused.
He was at her side in an instant. ”Don’t laugh. You’ll hurt yourself.”
She sighed. “I’m going to hurtyouif you don’t stop hovering!”
“Wilde.” The single word cut through the room like a blade. Gabe Bristow filled the doorway, his weathered face set in the expression that had once made enemy combatants reconsider their life choices. Even in civilian clothes—dark jeans and a button-down shirt—he radiated the kind of authority that made people straighten their spines involuntarily.
Elliot went perfectly still. “Sir.”
“You look like hell.”
It was true. Elliot’s usually immaculate appearance had deteriorated over the week. His light brown hair stuck up at odd angles from running his hands through it, dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes, and his clothes were the same tactical pants and Henley he’d worn during their evacuation from Antarctica. The scabs on his cheek from Jess’s nails stood out starkly against his pale skin.
“I’m fine,” Elliot said automatically.
Gabe’s hazel eyes narrowed. “Son, when’s the last time you showered? Ate a real meal? Slept somewhere that wasn’t that chair?”
Rue watched the internal battle play out across Elliot’s features. His protective instincts warred with his ingrained respect for her father, and she could see the moment respect won. His shoulders sagged slightly in defeat.
“She needs?—”
“She needs you healthy and rested. And you need a break,” her father said, and the tone was one Rue recognized from her childhood—the one that had sent even hardened special forces operators scrambling to obey. “Go back to the hotel with your brother.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Dom, who stood just outside the door. “Shower. Sleep. I’ll stay with her.”
Elliot hesitated, his gaze darting to Rue as if seeking permission or reassurance. She gave him a small nod, though part of her wanted him to stay. The constant hovering was driving her crazy, but there was something comforting about his presence, something that kept the nightmares at bay.
“I’ll be back in three hours,” he said finally.
“Make it six,” Gabe countered.
Elliot’s jaw tightened, but he nodded curtly. “Yes, sir.” He leaned over like he was going to kiss her, then seemed to think better of it with her father standing there, glaring. He brushed his lips over her forehead instead. “Call if you need anything. Anything at all.”
“I think I can manage without Egyptian cotton sheets for a few hours,” she said, trying for lightness.
The smile he gave her was strained, worry still etched deeply in the lines around his eyes. She wanted to erase those lines, but she was running out of ways to reassure him.
“I’m okay, Elliot,” she whispered and squeezed his hand. “Please, go take care of yourself now. For me.”
He inhaled, then exhaled in a rush and nodded.
Then he was gone, leaving her alone with her father for the first time since their rescue.
Gabe settled into the chair Elliot had vacated.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “He was driving me crazy.”
“I know how it feels.” He lifted his pant leg and tapped on his new metal prosthesis. “Your mother hovered for weeks after the big chop.”
Rue smiled. “She hates that you call it that.”
Gabe looked genuinely perplexed. “Yeah, I don’t get it. That’s what they did. Chopped off that broken-ass foot. Hell, I should’ve done it years ago.”
Rue laughed, wincing as the movement pulled at her still-tender ribs. Her dad had always approached his injuries with the same matter-of-fact attitude he brought to everything else in life. His foot had been damaged in a car accident years before she was born, and he’d dealt with the limp and the pain for decades before finally opting to have it amputated. And once he’d made the decision, he’d treated the surgery like a minor inconvenience rather than a life-altering event.
“Mom was just worried about you,” she said, studying his face. Despite his casual demeanor, she could see the toll of the past few days in the new lines around his eyes and mouth, as well as the slight pallor beneath his tan.
