Chapter 4

The East Wing smelled of antiseptic and expensive lilies. It was a suffocating, sterile scent that coated the back of Darcie's throat.

She was back in the wedding dress. The hem was stained with mud and oil from her escape, but there wasn't time to clean it. It felt fitting, actually. A dirty dress for a dirty deal.

The double doors hissed open.

Two nurses pushed a high-tech medical bed into the center of the room.

And there he was.

Fleet Maxwell.

Darcie had seen photos of him-the dashing CEO in tailored suits, the rugged soldier in fatigues. But the man in the bed was different. He was thinner, yes, but the structure was still there. Broad shoulders that filled the width of the mattress. A jawline that looked like it was carved from granite.

He was still. So incredibly still.

His eyes were closed. A ventilator tube was taped to his mouth, the machine breathing for him with a rhythmic whoosh-click.

Hugh snickered from the corner. "Don't expect him to kiss the bride."

Darcie ignored him. She walked to the side of the bed.

She reached out and placed her hand on Fleet's hand. His skin was cool, dry, and calloused.

Darkness. The familiar, suffocating void. It always was. He was a prisoner in his own skull, a ghost in the machine. He couldn't see. He couldn't move. He could only perceive muffled sounds from a world that had forgotten him.

Then... warmth. A sensation. Not muffled. Direct. It pierced the static for Fleet.

Something warm touched his hand. A surge of impotent rage flooded the void where his consciousness floated. Get off. Get... off! The scream was silent, a thought echoing in the abyss of his mind.

"Dearly beloved," the chaplain began, checking his watch. He wanted to be anywhere but here.

Darcie looked at the heart monitor. The green line marched on, steady and indifferent.

"Darcie Mayo, do you take this man..."

"I do," Darcie said. Her voice was stronger than she expected.

"And do you, Fleet Maxwell..."

"He does," Gwendolyn snapped, signing the paper on the clipboard. "Move it along."

"The rings," the chaplain said.

Darcie picked up the heavy gold band from the velvet pillow. It was the Maxwell family crest ring. It looked heavy enough to sink a ship.

She lifted Fleet's left hand. His fingers were stiff, curled slightly inward.

No. No! What is that? Cold. Heavy. The sensation was a violation to Fleet. A shackle sliding over his knuckle. The mental command to resist, to clench his fist, was sent, but the signal died somewhere in the ravaged pathways of his brain. Gwendolyn, you witch, what have you done? he thought.

Darcie struggled to push the ring over his knuckle. It caught. She had to wiggle it, pushing hard.

Beep-beep-beep.

The heart monitor sped up. Just a fraction.

"Is he okay?" Darcie asked, pulling back.

Dr. Aris, the head of the medical team, barely looked up from his chart. "Just a sympathetic nervous reflex. Muscle spasms. It happens."

But Darcie stared at Fleet's hand. For a second, just a split second, she thought she felt resistance. Not stiffness. Resistance.

She leaned down. Her veil brushed against his cheek.

She put her lips right next to his ear.

"I'm sorry I'm using you," she whispered, so low that even the microphones couldn't pick it up. "But I promise, I'll take care of you. Until you... go."

Her voice. Low and rough, like worn velvet. It vibrated through his skull, clearer than any other sound. Using me? A flicker of something-not rage, but... curiosity-stirred within him. The scent of her, like rainwater and something sweet, cut through the sterile air.

"Signed and sealed," Sterling announced. "You are now Mrs. Fleet Maxwell."

Gwendolyn clapped her hands once. A hollow sound. "Show's over. Darcie, the guest room in the servants' quarters is prepared."

Darcie straightened up. She placed her hand on the bed rail.

"No," Darcie said.

Gwendolyn froze. "Excuse me?"

Darcie held up the marriage certificate. "Clause 4, Section B. 'The spouse shall act as primary caregiver.' I'm staying here."

She pointed to the small cot in the corner, usually reserved for the night nurse.

"I sleep there."

Hugh made a gagging noise. "You want to sleep with a vegetable? You're sick."

"I'm his wife," Darcie said, her eyes hard. "Get out of my room."

Gwendolyn looked like she wanted to strangle Darcie, but Sterling ushered her out. "Let her have it. It's only for a few months."

The room emptied.

Darcie was alone with the steady whoosh-click of the ventilator.

She turned to look at her husband.

"Well, Fleet," she said, kicking off her heels. "Looks like we're roommates."

Roommates. Fleet thought.

He focused all his will, a pinpoint of light in the vast darkness, on his eyelids. Open. Open, damn you. Nothing happened. But he was listening.