When he came to in the hospital, his unknown rescuers were gone. Bella sat at his bedside, frantic and demanding answers. Bella hadn't been the one to mount a rescue. In fact, she had no clue where Tom had been. Or who'd taken him.
James covered his tracks pretty good.
Bellatrix wanted to send some of their men after James, but Tom shut that plan down fast. He'd go after James in his own time. At his own pace. He had to deal with himself first.
The man he'd been at the villa in Lisbon wasn't the same man occupying the narrow hospital bed. The obvious reason should be that he'd been held captive and tortured, but all that bloodshed seemed incidental compared to that other matter.
When he'd first stirred in the hospital bed, he'd assumed he was back in that place with James, and the desperate hope had warmed his cold spaces. Making him smile, until the I.V. in his arm corrected him.
Disappointment kept him company inside the small private hospital suite for four days. He felt fine, but the healers diagnosed him with dehydration and under-nourishment. Plus, his body was still working through the poisoning that came from Conner's silver bullet. All that time as James's captive and now side-lined by bloody healers. At Bella's insistence, two armed guards vetted anyone who came into his room. He allowed her the indulgence, but if they didn't let him out by tomorrow he'd be walking the hell out of this place.
This wasn't where he was supposed to be. Staring up at the ceiling while running through everything that happened in his head wasn't what he was supposed to be doing. He should be planning an attack of some kind against James, but something inside him felt stunted. He didn't know if James was even alive. Those men shot him. And Tom just walked away, as if they hadn't been halfway down each other's throat seconds prior.
As if James hadn't rooted around inside him, found every needy part of him… those parts he'd sought so hard to destroy… and laid them bare.
All his fault lines, James exposed them.
If those masked men hadn't stormed into the brownstone, where would he and James be? If he hadn't known before how much of a mistake that kiss had been, the sight of that wolf's name tattooed all over his chest and torso set Tom straight.
Nowhere. They would be nowhere.
What right did he have to any of it? What business did he have, reminiscing on those stolen kisses as if they mattered?
A throat cleared, and Tom sat up. A man stood at the entrance to his room. Gorgeous, smiling face framed by white-blond hair and dark indigo eyes shining like precious stones. Barely standing more than five feet, the stranger's slender frame was clad in a perfectly tailored dark suit.
"Mr. Voldemort."
"Who are you?"
Maybe he should be more than slightly annoyed that a stranger was in his room, but he couldn't manage more than a frown.
"My name is Fraser"
The stranger walked over, hand held out in greeting.
Tom ignored it,
"What do you want?"
The name wasn't unfamiliar. In fact, that name carried a whole lot of weight behind it. This man was supposed to be a power player in the criminal underworld.
Why was he at Tom's bedside?
His unwanted guest clicked his tongue,
"Is that any way to greet the only soul brave enough to sneak past those armed men outside?"
He sat in the armchair at the foot of Tom's hospital bed.
"I don't usually repeat myself, Mr. Fraser, but I'll make an exception, since you're new and all."
Tom held his gaze,
"What the hell do you want?"
Fraser's lips curved,
"Heard you were gone for a while. Now you're back."
"A man with a reputation like yours keeping tabs on me?"
Tom cocked his head,
"Should I be worried?"
"It's not every day the head of one of the strongest drug businesses around disappears without a trace."
The other man shrugged,
"People were taking bets on how exactly you'd meet your demise."
"You sound disappointed,"
Tom said,
"Did you have plans for my corpse?"
"Not disappointed."
Fraser shook his head as he got to his feet,
"Just curious."
He walked over and stood next to the bed,
"Would you have stayed?"
Tom tensed. Then he tilted his head all the way back so their eyes could meet,
"Repeat yourself."
Fraser grinned like the Cheshire cat,
"If he'd asked you to stay, to remain in that bedroom with the handcuffs around your wrist and the chains around your ankles…"
He bent closer, almost whispering,
"Would you have stayed? If the answer is yes, what is the reason? Guilt or James?"
That bloody bastard…
"You know."
Fraser knew where he'd been and with whom?
Fraser straightened,
"There are very few things I don't know, Mr. Voldemort. I traffic in information."
He tugged on the front of his jacket,
"You're welcome, by the way. My men tell me you weren't quite happy to be out of that house."
What the hell? Tom lurched forward, grabbing him by the front of his shirt,
"That was you? You got me out of there?"
What the hell was this?
"That was me… Yes."
Fraser nodded.
"Why?"
He snarled,
"How did you know? Tell me."
If Fraser was put off by the assault and blatant demand, he didn't show it. Instead, he calmly pried Tom's fingers off him, and smoothed his clothes,
"I know a lot of things. Like I said, it's kind of my business."
"To hell with that. How did you know he had me? When did you know?"
"He's a resourceful man, isn't he?"
Fraser patted Tom's knee,
"And you two… you're so much alike. Am I right?"
He chuckled at a joke only he got.
Frustration bubbled up,
"Tell me."
"Do you want to know where he is? Because I heard something about an impending second round."
Tom stared at him. His immediate answer to that question was yes. He wanted to see James again. Touch him again. Fight with him again. But that wasn't his rational brain working,
"Why would you do that?"
He didn't trust Fraser, not one bit,
"He tried to kill me. The next time we see each other, one of us will die."
"Really?"
One of Fraser's eyebrows shot up,
"From what I hear, you fired the first shot by kidnapping Greyback. He's only returning fire."
"I didn't know… I didn't know that wolf meant so much to him"
Tom snapped.
"Hey, I get it."
Hands held up in a sign of surrender, Fraser asked,
"Do you expect it to go away, what you feel for him? Or are you hoping it won't?"
How could he know? When had Tom become transparent? He blanked his features and simply watched Fraser until his visitor barked a laugh and clapped his hands.
"He doesn't have friends,"
Fraser said,
"That's not the man he is. And the only people who care about him, he's keeping them at arm's length. Revenge is all he knows. Vengeance is what he lives and breathes for now"
Fraser's gaze turned haunted,
"At least I thought so, until he snatched you in Lisbon."
Tom closed his eyes,
"Don't tell me this. I don't want to know."
Those words made him feel things when he'd been lying in this hospital bed doing anything he could to not feel.
"You must know."
"Why?"
He lifted his lashes and glared at Fraser. Did he know what he was doing?
"Why do I have to know?"
"That way when you retaliate against him, you won't forget."
Fraser made his way to the door,
"Something you both should already know, but I'm telling you now: sometimes it is necessary to lose the battle in order to win the war."
He stopped and looked over his shoulder,
"In this war between you and him, someone must lose. But if you're fighting for the right thing, the same thing, losing can be a different, sweeter kind of victory."