Without the elevator, she would have either had to turn one of the downstairs “public” rooms into a temporary bedroom or have someone carry her up and down. Both sounded horrible, so she gladly rode the elevator. But the elevator was slow. Much slower than taking the stairs.
When the door opened, Nyx was standing there.
“That’s rude,” Nikolett said as she made her way out of the elevator.
“What is?”
“Showing off your ability to climb stairs.”
“How else was I going to ambush you?”
Nikolett paused, eyeing her friend. “What if you just…didn’t ambush me?”
Nyx snorted in amusement, as if that were the stupidest thing she’d ever heard, and followed Nikolett. Nikolett had originally planned to go to her office and get some work done—more reports had come in from an issue they were having in Moldova, and she needed to read them. But her leg hurt, she was tired, and that meeting to discuss her future trinity had left a sick, slimy feeling in her stomach.
She headed for the small lounge room at the far end of the hall. “Nyx, I need some alone time.”
“Admiral, are you ordering me, your vice admiral, to leave you alone?”
Nikolett resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes. Go away.”
Nyx stopped walking, and Nikolett carried on, faster on her crutches than she had been, thanks to both experience and the lighter cast.
Light, quick footsteps sounded behind her, and a second later, Nyx was back at her side.
Nikolett sighed. “So when I give an order…”
“That was admiral to vice admiral. This is me, your very best friend, coming to be with you because I know you need to talk.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. And I have wine.” Nyx held up the bottle she must have had behind her back.
“And what is it you think we need to talk about?”
Nyx slipped ahead and opened the door to the lounge. “Eric.” Nyx wiggled the bottle of wine. “We’re going to talk about Eric.”
“Ready to try again?”
“No. Also, fuck you.”
Dr. Mata waited patiently, no judgment in his expression.
Eric leaned back in the spindly chair and scrubbed his hands over his face. They were in a room that had last been used in eighteen something when furniture was small and uncomfortable.
The chair creaked ominously when he leaned back.
He felt raw and tender like the time he’d sustained second-degree burns in a conflict in Southeast Asia. When he took the job, he’d half hoped it would kill him. Sadly, all it did was leave him with painful burns for several months.
The distraction that kept him sane during his recovery had been a couple of curious Irish teenagers. One outgoing, one awkward.
He dropped his hands from his face to rub the arm that had been burned. Right now, he wasn’t hurt physically, but the tender, vulnerable feeling from that injury was the best analogy he had for how he felt emotionally after days of intense therapy.
Finally he sat forward, elbows on his knees.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
Dr. Mata studied him for a moment before nodding. Then he repositioned the light bar and turned it on.
