Eric had done what he could to help find them, and heard from Colum some of the details of what they’d been through. The group who took them assumed Devon was the Grand Master—because of course it couldn’t be a woman—and tortured Juliette to get Devon to talk.
They’d been through hell and come out the other side.
“Yes,” Eric said simply. “I know.”
“Then you know that all three of them experienced significant emotional and physical trauma. It could have severely impacted not only their marriage but their ability to function, their outside relationships.”
“But it didn’t because you fixed them?”
Dr. Mata cocked his head. “I didn’t fix them because they weren’t broken.”
“Well, there’s your problem. I’m broken.” Eric was trying to make light of it, make a joke so that he could ease out of this.
“I very much doubt that.”
Eric snorted. “Ask anyone. I’m broken.”
Dr. Mata’s expression didn’t change. “I’d rather ask you. Why do you feel you’re broken?”
Eric opened his mouth to say something dismissive. To thank Dr. Mata for coming all this way but he needed to leave.
That’s what Eric intended to say, but what came out was, “I’m not sure I loved my wife, Dahlia.”
He’d never said that out loud before. He barely let himself think it. But the past few months had left him feeling raw. The midday nightmare hadn’t helped. Eric’s defenses were down and the words slipped out.
Dr. Mata nodded once. “Let’s talk about that.”
Elena slid her safety glasses up onto her head as she set aside the oscillating orthopedic saw she’d used to cut off Nikolett’s cast.
Nikolett grimaced at the smell as Elena pulled the pieces of the cast apart. “You only had this on two weeks.” Elena started cutting the inner padding with safety scissors. “Trust me, it could be much worse.”
Nikolett leaned back on the new padded exam table that had been installed while she was at Triskelion. Normal people didn’t have small medical suites in their homes, but Elena was tired of having to use Nikolett’s office as a makeshift exam room and surgical suite. Two rooms on the second floor—the private part of her home—had been retrofitted to Elena’s specifications.
Nyx, Nikolett’s vice admiral, was leaning over Elena’s shoulder, studying Nikolett’s leg with interest.
“Is it supposed to look like that?” Nyx asked.
“What?” Nikolett leaned to the side, trying to see what she was looking at. Mostly she tried not to look at the slightly curved, horizontal wounds on either side of her calf, because seeing them invariably dragged up the memory of that moment when the bear trap snapped on her leg.
Elena brandished the safety scissors at Nyx. “Back up, and stop saying things that make her worry.”
“I’m merely asking a question.”
“Is there something wrong with my leg?” Nikolett asked a bit desperately. It looked like it was healing. Though wait, was the skin a little puffy around the sutures? Was that a sign of infection?
“No. It’s healing nicely.” Elena shifted to look at the matching wound on the inside of her calf. “I’m glad you came back when you did. I wouldn’t want that cast on for any longer than it was.”
“Much longer, and we would have had to come get you,” Nyx added.
Nikolett leaned her head back. “Please promise me that you won’t take any aggressive action against the fleet admiral.”
Grigoris, Nyx’s husband and the security minister of Hungary, opened the door midway through Nikolett’s words. Maxim followed him in, carrying something bulky and wrapped in paper under one arm.
“If he takes you prisoner again, we will come for you,” Nyx declared, a dangerous light in her eyes.
“Let’s not be the spark that lights a civil war.” Nikolett grimaced a little as pain twinged up her leg, though she refused to look at what Elena was doing. She briefly related her conversation with Xavier about what that civil war might look like.
Nyx and Grigoris shared a grim look.
