He shrugged. "Who knows?" His gaze met mine, and I noticed for the first time since I woke up how filled with anguish his was. "I was worried about you."
"That makes two of us."
"Don't joke." His voice caught, and he brought his hand back up to stroke my face gently. "You have a knack for working your way into somebody's life real fast, you know that, sweetheart?"
"I thought I asked you not to call me sweetheart?" I was only half-serious as I said it.
He smirked. "Sorry." He didn't move his hand, and I didn't push it away. In fact, I moved my face to nestle closer to him.
"So now what?" I asked.
"So now we're waiting for somebody to check your leg and release us, I guess. They took the bullet out already and patched you up. They gave you some pain meds, which is probably why you were out so long."
"How long was I out?"
"A long time. Almost eighteen hours."
My eyebrows raised. "Eighteen hours?"
He nodded. I raised the white sheets to look down at myself. My clothes were gone and I was now wearing a white, scratchy hospital gown. My right thigh was bandaged.
"So you've … you've been here the whole time? With me?"
"Yeah," he said. "They said I should wait outside, but I refused. I thought they'd beat the shit out of me for giving them attitude, but they didn't. Don't know why. Let me sit in here with you after they were finished patching up your leg."
"For eighteen hours? You've been sitting next to me the whole time?"
"I dozed for a bit myself, but otherwise, yeah." He looked away, and then back to me. "I didn't mind. It's not a bad view, after all."
I felt my cheeks heat. He'd been watching me sleep. That should have totally creeped me out, but instead it made me feel… feel… I don't know. It made me feel secure for some reason. Like he was looking out for me. Making sure nobody hurt me.
Which didn't make a damn bit of sense at all.
Why would a convicted murderer want to be my guardian angel? Why did being around him fill me with anything but the fear I should be feeling with him? Why did I trust him not to hurt me when I was completely helpless? Why did I like the feel of his hand on my face?
Because I didn't believe he was guilty, that was why. He was nothing like the man who'd murdered my family. I'd seen no indication at all that he was cruel or heartless, and he couldn't bring himself to kill Bernard when he thought he was just an innocent civilian.
He didn't do it.
The clear thought was like a revelation that pushed all my fears away.
That would probably be the reason that I found myself placing my hands on either side of his face and drawing him down closer to me. I put a hand on his chest, which was going in and out with his increased breathing, and I could feel his heart pounding hard and fast.
"Kira," he managed, just before our lips brushed together in an achingly soft kiss.
It wasn't much at all. Just the briefest touch before he pulled back. The look on his face held such confusion and awkwardness for such a small thing as a kiss, it almost made me laugh.
And then I realized what I'd just done.
Oh, my God. What was I thinking?
It was the painkillers. Yeah. Had to be the drugs. They were totally tripping me out and making me do things I would never normally do in a million years.
Dammit. I wanted to kiss him again.
I pressed my lips together, still stunned by how good he'd felt.
I looked up at him. "Can I ask you a question?"
Eyes still a bit wide and his hand hovering over his mouth, he stared down at me. "Uh … of course you can."
"When we were out there with that robot thing … you looked at me and asked if I believed everything I saw on the news."
He looked away, his mouth forming a thin line. "Yeah."
"What was that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. I was stalling for time. Didn't work. The bastard shot you anyhow." He moved away as if he were going to stand up from the bed. "You said no, right? That you didn't believe everything the news says."
"That's right. I don't."
I reached up and grabbed his shirt to force him to look at me. Being the messed-up mass of emotions I currently was embodying, there were now tears on my cheeks again.
Smile, cry, smile, cry.
Pick one.
"I'm going to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth. You hear me? The truth. And I want to hear it from you." I sounded surprisingly strong for somebody stuck on her back with a bullet just pulled from her leg.
"What?"
"Did you do it?"
His eyes narrowed. "Do what?"
"What they said you did."
His jaw clenched and he looked away. "I'm going to check on what the hell is taking them so long-"
I grabbed for a tighter hold of his shirt. If he was getting up, he was taking me with him. "Those nine girls. Did you murder them like they said you did? And the three counts of rape? Is that true? I don't believe you did it, but I want you to tell me. God damn it, Rogan. Tell me the truth."
He blinked. "You … you don't believe it?"
I shook my head. "No."
His face was so tense it looked like it might shatter. "No one's ever questioned whether or not it's the truth before. Everyone just assumes I'm guilty as sin. Why wouldn't you?"
"Because they're the scumbags who plucked me out of my normal life and are trying to kill me in their stupid game. Why would I believe anything they tell me?"
He was silent for a long time, and then: "I'm a very bad man, Kira."
I slid my fingers into his dark hair. "Just being a bad man doesn't necessarily mean that you did what they said."
He licked his lips and wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Just tell me," I said. "It's simple, really. You either did it or you didn't."
He shook his head. "Nothing's simple. Nothing in my life has ever been simple."
"Did you rape them? Three of those girls?" I said it so softly I was surprised he heard me.
I watched a tear slip from his left eye, tracing the line of his scar. "No. I've never raped anybody. Ever. I swear to you."
"Did you kill them?"
"No." He shook his head as he met my gaze-his filled with so many conflicting emotions I couldn't even begin to pinpoint them all.
But it didn't matter. I felt a huge weight lift off my chest. Even without using my flex, I trusted my ability to read people's faces. Some liars managed to still get past me, but they were few and far between.
Rogan wasn't lying. I would bet my life on it. In fact, I think I already had.
"You believe me," he said very softly. "You don't know how much this means to me, Kira."
"Why would they say that if it wasn't true?" I asked. "Why would you let them?"
"It's complicated."
My gaze softened, and I touched his face, tracing my index finger gently along his scar. "So you went to prison for something you didn't even do?"
He swallowed hard and took my hand in his. "I told you already. I'm a very bad man. If you knew the truth about me, you wouldn't be looking at me like that. You'd hate me. And you'd sure as hell not want to kiss me."
I shook my head and twisted my fingers into his hair to draw him closer to me. 'Tell me, Rogan. I promise I won't hate you."
Just then the door opened to my right and Jonathan walked in. Two men dressed all in white accompanied him but stayed by the door while he approached my bed. I tensed and Rogan straightened up. My hand fell to my side.
"You're awake," he said, and then adjusted his wireframe glasses.
I glanced at Rogan, then back at Jonathan. "You're very observant."
He smiled. "I'm to tell you that your next level is a reward level. Should you complete it successfully, you will receive something very special."