His Unwanted Wife, The Rival Don's Queen

Haven POV

The rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor was the first thing to pierce the darkness.

Then came the smell-sharp antiseptic and stale coffee.

My body felt shattered, as if I had been run over by a truck. Every inch of my skin throbbed or stung from the glass and the fall.

I opened my eyes.

Connor was sitting in the chair next to the bed, his head buried in his hands.

He looked wrecked.

Good.

He lifted his head and saw me awake.

"Haven," he breathed, reaching for my hand.

I pulled my hand away.

It was a small movement, but he flinched as if I had slapped him.

"Thank God," he whispered, ignoring the rejection. "I went back. I swear to you, Haven. I went back with the whole crew ten minutes later. You were gone. We found blood on the glass. I thought..."

"You thought I was dead," I rasped. My throat felt like I had swallowed razor blades.

"I had to get her out, Haven," he said, his voice taking on that pleading tone I used to find endearing. "It was a blood debt. Her father died for me. If I let her die, I lose the respect of the Old Guard. You know the rules."

I stared at the ceiling.

The rules never stated that a husband leaves his wife to be raped and butchered to save a girl he has known for six months.

"I am thirsty," I said.

He scrambled to get a plastic cup of water with a bendy straw.

He held it to my lips.

I took a sip, watching him.

He was the Underboss of the city, a man who commanded fear, yet here he was, shaking.

A nurse bustled into the room.

"Mr. Jones," she said, her voice urgent. "It is Ms. Chan. She is hyperventilating again. She is asking for you."

Connor froze.

He looked at me, then at the door.

"She is in shock," he explained to me, standing up. "She has never seen a gun before."

"Go," I said.

My voice was flat.

He hesitated.

"I will be right back," he promised. "Just let me calm her down."

He left the room.

I waited ten seconds.

Then I ripped the IV from my arm.

Blood welled up, dripping onto the pristine white sheets, but I didn't feel it.

I slid my legs off the bed.

The room spun.

I gripped the IV pole for support and shuffled to the door.

The hallway was quiet, the night shift in full swing.

I heard sobbing coming from a room three doors down.

I walked toward it, my hospital gown gaping at the back, my bare feet cold on the linoleum.

The door was ajar.

I saw them.

Gemma was sitting up in bed, looking perfectly fine, not a scratch on her.

Connor was sitting on the edge of her mattress.

He was stroking her hair.

She leaned into him, burying her face in his neck.

He kissed her forehead.

It wasn't a comforting peck.

It was slow.

It was tender.

It was the way he used to kiss me after a long day.

One of the nurses at the station whispered to another, unaware I was standing there.

"That's the third night he has slept in her room. Poor wife doesn't even know."

I turned around.

I walked back to my room, found my ruined clothes in a plastic bag, and dressed with shaking hands.

I walked out of the Family-controlled hospital and hailed a cab.

"Take me to the St. Jude's Clinic," I told the driver.

I needed a doctor who wasn't on my husband's payroll.