Cael Alexander sat upright against the elevated recovery bed wearing a dark hospital gown loosely tied at the waist. Thin monitoring wires disappeared beneath the fabric near his collarbone while a pale identification band remained fastened around one wrist. The clinical details looked wrong on him somehow. Cael belonged in tailored black suits, expensive watches, polished shoes that crossed marble floors without hesitation.
Not here.
Not inside a recovery room hidden within the labyrinth of walls in Artemis Tower where every movement still required observation.
Galathea Brooks stood in soft slippers near the windows with her arms folded inside the sleeves of an oversized cream knitted sweater that nearly swallowed her hands. Loose stretch pants hung comfortably against her hips while exhaustion softened the sharpness she usually carried through the world so carefully.
Neither of them looked like themselves tonight.
That was part of the problem.
