"Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends."
—John 15:13 NIV
I WOKE UP TO a persistent beeping noise, similar to that of an alarm clock. Groaning, I moved my arm to shut it off, and a wave of pain swept over me. My eyes sprang open, taking in my unfamiliar surroundings as I tried to recall what had happened to put me in this place. I was surrounded by beige walls, white-tiled ceilings, medical equipment, and nurses bustling in and out. Cream curtains had been drawn shut, blocking out light from a window next to my bed, and there was a matching bedspread draped over my body. Next to my bed, a nightstand had been placed in front of a leather chesterfield. This was clearly not a typical hospital room—it was far more luxurious.
After a pathetic attempt to swallow, I looked around for water. All I saw was a cold coffee on my bedside table, which I decided to drink anyways. I cringed in pain as I picked up the cup, but soon enough the chilled caffeine had its effect on my body, waking me up thoroughly. I felt more alert and awake—though I was now awakened to the agony in the rest of my body, which, upon further examination, seemed to be a patchwork quilt of aches and wounds.
"What happened?" I asked once my tongue no longer seemed on the brink of turning to dust.
"You got shot in the shoulder, honey," one of the nurses replied bluntly but gently. "You're very lucky that the bullet didn't hit one of your vital organs."
All I could think was, praise the Lord and thank you God for keeping me alive. Maybe someone more bitter than I would have been praying, God, why did you let me get shot in the first place? but I wasn't about to be ungrateful for having my life spared. "I—how, exactly, did I get shot?"
"That's not my story to tell, Miss Devereaux." She smiled at me kindly, reaching over to fluff the pillows behind my head. "I'm sure someone else can tell it better—Oh, there he is now."
I looked up gingerly, turning my stiff neck with a wince. It must have been Aaron, come to tell me the facts in a cut-and-dry manner. Definitely it wouldn't be Alexander, my fiancé with his rude remarks and cold distance. But it was, and surprise caused me to gasp and put my hand to my mouth, an action that made tears spring to my eyes. I quickly dropped it.
"The nurses said you can push that button for painkillers," he said, nodding at the device by my hand, and stopped at the door to my room.
Alexander leaned against it, and I studied him. He'd rolled up his shirtsleeves, a smear of blood on the side of the formerly crisp, tailored garment, and his jacket was clearly discarded. His hair was dishevelled, as if he'd been running his hands through it, and I could see dark shadows under his blue eyes. Some layers of armour had been stripped away from him; he was not completely vulnerable before me—I doubted anyone one could see him in that state except God—but he was less guarded than he usually was.
"Can I come in?" he asked so softly, so tenderly that it made my heart ache more than if he had demanded to enter my room.
"Go ahead." I pushed the button, feeling an almost instant relief flood my veins. Sighing at the sudden absence of pain, I sank back onto the soft mattress. "Come in."
He sat on the couch carefully, as though it might disintegrate beneath him, and he looked at me with a strange, fearful sort of wonder—as though I was a drop of dew or an iridescent butterfly, something astonishing that might disappear at any moment.
"I—why am I here?" When he didn't respond, I took a painful sip of coffee and tried again. "In this hospital, I mean. How did I get shot?"
He gripped the couch's armrest in a grasp so strong that I pitied the inanimate object. "You—the engagement party last night. What do you remember of it?"
"I remember..." My head ached as I tried to think, tried to recall everything that seemed so foggy. "I remember dancing with you, and talking to a girl. Mary... No, Maria. Maria Cooper."
"Keep going," he prodded gently. It was such a sharp contrast to his usual demeanour that I wanted to almost spite him by not obliging, in case this was some kind of trick. Then again, he would be cruel to a girl who was in the hospital and had just been shot? I had once accused him of having no heart, but I was certain he at least had a conscience.
"Then I heard noises... I ran back to the ballroom..." My head began to pound, a throbbing headache taking up residence in my temples. "There was a gunman! He was threatening your father, and then he turned the gun on you."
"Very good," he encouraged.
"And then I threw myself on top of you. The bullet hit me."
Such simple phrases, such short sentences, painting all my complex emotions into shades of black and white, clearly defined events with no regard for the confusion and pain and guilt that was wrapped around the two of us. The same feelings that were finally surfacing in Alexander's body language, in his tone. In the anger displayed on his face as he got up from the couch, his movements a savage stride that reminded me of a predator stalking its prey.
I steeled myself to meet his gaze. All softness and kindness was gone from it, replaced by the familiar fury and disgust and bitterness. Seeing that expression on him again hurt more than I wanted to admit, because it shattered my hope into a thousand, unfixable pieces.
"I would have died for you," I stated, I realized.
"What the heck is wrong with you?" He was breathing hard, his face white and shocked, his hair dishevelled.
My heart raced. I was both scared and oddly excited to see him in such a state, so unlike his typically controlled self. "I-I don't know."
"You hate me," he said firmly, as though trying to make it true. "You-you hate me. So why the hell would you risk your life for mine?"
"Because," I stammered, and of course he was asking questions I had no answers for. "I might not love you. You might be an awful, despicable person, but... that doesn't make it right for me to stand by and watch you die, not when I could do something about it, not when-"
There were no answers, no words left in my mind or my mouth, when he crossed the room and kissed me.
+
FOR ALL HIS ICY tirades, this kiss was as warm and hesitant as Alexander's first words had been when entering my room, when egging me on to keep recounting the acts of last night. All the cruelty and all the rage that he usually wielded like weapons seemed to have been erased from his mouth as soon as it touched mine. Yet despite his hesitancy, I sensed that he was in complete control of his actions and my reactions. The kiss lasted no more than an instant, yet when he pulled away my heart felt as if I'd run a marathon, my breathing heavy and ragged. When I opened my eyes, my pain seemed to have dissipated somewhere into the ether, my entire body fluid and completely relaxed.
He, on the other hand, was entirely the opposite, all tense shoulders and tight jaw. The lips that had only a second ago touched mine were now pressed together in a severe line, and he refused to look at me. It was a spur of the moment decision, nothing more than an impulse, a rash act of emotion. The thought that it meant nothing to him—that I meant nothing to him—hurt more than any gunshot wound could.
"Why did you kiss me, Alexander?" I asked, in as even a tone as I could. I was on the verge of shaking, on the brink of falling apart, but he was cold again now, broken glass again. If I broke apart he would hurt me further as he always did, with or without trying. "Did you do it because you want us to be together for real, or because you simply wanted me?"
For one painful moment, we locked eyes. He had recoiled and stepped back to the couch, standing in front of it like he was worried about falling backwards. I didn't want him to want me. I wanted him to want us, what we could be together, the future we could have side by side. Not as a dead, loveless marriage that he had envisioned for us.
"I don't answer to you," he snarled finally.
One simple line as he stormed out. Before the door could slam shut behind him, before my heart could shut with it, I shouted a question at him. "I almost died for you. And this is how you treat me?"
He turned around, and hope lit up again, sparked in my veins again even as pointless as it was. "Haven't you heard, Katerina? I am nothing short of heartless."