“No?” Pushing the door wider, he came in with a tray of food. “I had hoped … well, mayhap you would care for victuals?”

Sola tilted her head. “You have the most old-fashioned way of talking.”

“English is not my first language.” He put the tray down on a rolling table and brought it over. “It is not my second, either.”

“Probably the reason I love to listen to you.”

He froze as he heard her words—and yeah, maybe if she hadn’t been hopped up on pain meds, she wouldn’t have admitted such a thing. But what the hell.

Abruptly, he looked at her, an intense light in his eyes making them appear even more shimmery than usual. “I am glad my voice pleases you,” he said roughly.

Sola focused on the food as she began to feel warm inside for the first time since … everything. “Thanks for making the effort, but I’m not hungry.”

“You need food.”

“The antibiotics are making me sick.” She nodded at the IV bag hanging off the pole next to her bed. “Whatever’s in there is just … awful.”

“I will feed you.”

“I…”

For some reason, she thought back to that night out in the snow, when he’d tracked her off his property and confronted her at her car. Talk about menacing in the dark—Jesus, he’d scared the shit out of her. But that wasn’t all she’d felt.

Assail brought the one chair in the room over. Funny, it wasn’t one of those rickety plastic jobbies that you normally found in clinics; it was like something out of Pottery Barn, padded, cozy, and with a nice pattern. As he sat down, he didn’t fit in it, and not because he was overweight. He was too big, his powerful body dwarfing its arms and back, his clothes too black for the pale color—

There were bloodstains on his jacket, brown and dried. And on his shirt. His pants.

“Do not look upon that,” he said softly. “Here. For you, I chose only the best.”

Lifting up the cloche, he revealed …

“Where the hell am I?” she demanded as she leaned in and breathed deep. “Does, like, Jean-Georges have a medical division or something?”

“Who is this Jean-Georges?”

“Some fancy chef in New York City. I heard about him on Food Network.” She sat up, wincing as her thigh let out a hey-girlie. “I don’t even like roast beef—but that looks amazing.”

“I thought the iron would be good for you.”

The slab of beef was beautifully cooked, with a crust that cracked as he cut into it with—

“Are those sterling silver?” she wondered at the fork, the knife—the spoon that was still on a fancy folded napkin.

“Eat.” He brought a precisely cut piece to her mouth. “Eat for me.”

Without any prompting, her mouth opened on its own, like it was going to have none of the I-can-feed-myself delays.

Closing her eyes, she groaned. Yeah, she wasn’t hungry. Not at all.

“This is the single best thing I have ever eaten.”

The smile that lit his face made no sense. It was too bright to be just about her having some grub—and he must have known this, because he turned his head so she only saw a flash of the expression.

For the next fifteen, twenty minutes, the only sounds in the room, apart from the whistling heating vents, was that luxe silverware hitting a porcelain plate. And yup, in spite of her oh-no-I-couldn’t-possiblies, she ate that huge slice of beef, and the scalloped potatoes, and the creamed spinach. As well as the dinner roll that surely was homemade. And the peach cobbler. And she even had some of the chilled bottled water and the coffee that came in a carafe.

She probably would have eaten the napkin, the tray, all that sterling and the rolling table if given the chance.

Collapsing back against the pillow, she put her hand over her belly. “I think I’m going to explode.”

“I shall just put this out in the hall. Pardon me.”

From her vantage point, she measured every move he made: the way he stood up, gripped the sides of the tray in long, elegant hands, turned away, walked smoothly.

Talk about your table manners. He’d handled the silver with a genteel flare, as if he used that kind of thing in his own home. And he hadn’t spilled a drop as he’d poured her coffee. Or missed any food getting into her mouth.

A perfect gentleman.

Hard to reconcile it with what she’d seen as he’d handed her the cell phone to speak with her grandmother. Then, he’d been unhinged, with blood running down his chin as if he’d taken a hunk out of someone. His hands, too, had been red with blood …

Considering she’d killed everyone in that horrible place before she’d left? He’d obviously brought someone up with him.

Oh, God … she was a murderer.

Assail came back in and sat down, crossing his legs at the knee, not ankle to thigh as men usually did. Steepling his hands, he brought them to his mouth and stared at her.

“You killed him, didn’t you,” she said softly.

“Who.”

“Benloise.”

His magnetic gaze drifted elsewhere. “We shall not speak of it. Any of it.”

Sola took elaborate care folding the top edge of the blanket down. “I can’t … I can’t pretend that last night didn’t happen.”

“You’re going to have to.”

“I killed two men.” She flipped her eyes up to his and blinked fast. “I killed … two human beings. Oh, God…”

Covering her face, she tried to keep her head together.

“Marisol…” There was a squeak as if he’d moved that Pottery Barn chair even closer. “Darling, you must put it from your mind.”

“Two men…”

“Animals,” he said sharply. “They were animals who deserved worse. All of them.”

Lowering her hands, she was not surprised that his expression was deadly, but she wasn’t scared of him. She was, however, frightened of what she’d done.

“I can’t get…” She gestured at the side of her head. “I can’t get the pictures out of my—”

“Block them, darling. Just forget it ever happened.”

“I can’t. Ever. I should turn myself in to the police—”

“They were going to kill you. And do you think if they had they would have paid you any honor of conscience? I can assure you not.”

“This was my fault.” She closed her eyes. “I should have known Benloise would retaliate. I just didn’t think it would be to this level.”

“But, my darling, you’re safe—”

“How many?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How many … have you killed.” She exhaled hard. “And please don’t try to pretend you haven’t. I saw your face, remember. Before you washed it off.”

He looked away, and wiped his chin as if the blood were still on him. “Marisol. Put it away, somewhere deep—and leave it be.”

“Is that how you handle it?”

Assail shook his head, his jaw clenching, his mouth thinning. “No. I remember my kills. Each and every one.”

“So you hate what you had to do?”

His eyes stayed steady on hers. “No. I relish it.”

Sola winced. Finding out he was a sociopathic murderer was really the cherry on top of the sundae, wasn’t it.

He leaned in. “I’ve never killed without a reason, Marisol. I relish the deaths because they deserved what befell them.”

“So you’ve protected others.”

“No, I’m a businessman. Unless I am crossed, I am far more content to live and let live. However, I shall not be tread upon—nor shall I let those who are mine own be compromised.”

She studied him for the longest time—and not once did he look away. “I think I believe you.”

“You should.”

“But it’s still a sin.” She thought of all those prayers she’d offered up and felt a guilt like she’d never known before. “I realize I’ve done criminal things in the past … but I never hurt anyone except financially. Which is bad enough, but at least I didn’t burn their—”

He took her hand. “Marisol. Look at me.”

It was a while before she could. “I don’t know how to live with myself. I truly don’t.”

As Assail felt his heart pound in his chest, he realized he’d been wrong. He had assumed that getting his Marisol physically safe and taking care of Benloise would end this horrible chapter in her life: