Jude Quincy was weak and drained, barely able to muster a breath. When the man at his bedside ignored his question, Jude figured maybe the guy didn’t understand English. He tried again in French, but the man remained as silent as a stone.
Jude wanted to get angry, but he just didn’t have the strength.
Forget it.
At least now his mind was clear.
He wasn’t dead.
That was all that mattered.
Whoever had tried to kill him had failed, and as long as he was still breathing, he had a shot at payback.
But the pain—God, the pain was excruciating. If this kept up, he thought wryly, he’d end up dying from it anyway.
The door to the room opened from the outside.
Jude’s view was blocked by the man at his bedside, so he couldn’t see who had come in. He only saw the man stand and respectfully address someone: “Miss.”
So he does speak after all, Jude thought sourly. He’d been giving Jude the silent treatment, and now, just like that, he had a voice. How infuriating.
Jude wanted to sit up and see who it was, but pain and exhaustion pinned him to the bed, so he stayed put, helpless and still.
“How is he?” The new voice was soft, clear—and oddly familiar.
Jude’s eyes flickered with recognition.
That voice…
The man stepped aside.
And there she was: Winona Thorne.
Jude’s gaze sharpened, a thousand complicated emotions crossing his face. “So it really was you.”
“You’re awake,” Winona said, her expression calm and unreadable. “You woke up sooner than I expected.”
Jude opened his mouth, but no words came out.
He wasn’t stupid—he understood the situation well enough.
Winona had saved him.


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