Connor is standing with his arms crossed over his muscular chest, in front of our suite door with all my shopping bags lying on the floor beside his feet. When he spots me walking from the elevator, he looks at me in question at the way I appear to be, but doesn’t say a single word as I pick up the bags with my limp, weak arms and swipe open the door.
Hercules, my eyes widen as I step inside a pitch dark room. I close the door with a push of my foot and quietly place the bags on top of the pantry table. “Hercules?” I call out. Removing my heels from my sore feet, I sniff away the last of my sobs and move into the bedroom, stopping at the doorway when I see a dark figure sitting on the arm chair. “Hercules,” I call out again but he doesn’t reply; only stays eerily hushed, and I feel his pe
