My eyes dart between her disgruntled expression and his stern one. It doesn’t look like she agrees with his diagnosis. Does he have enough power to order the clan doctor around like that?
She listens to my heart and checks my vitals. “Your lungs sound much better. You’re young and healthy, which certainly helps, because I was ready to insist you be taken to the family clinic. You were quite ill.” I choose this minute to start coughing again and she presses the pillow against my ribs for some support. “I’m certain you don’t feel like getting up, but it would help your lungs if you can walk around a bit. Do you feel strong enough to walk to the bathroom with help?”
“I’ll carry her,” Ethan interrupts, and we both glare at him.
“She needs to walk,” she says sternly.
“I can walk,” I agree hastily, pushing back my blankets and trying to swing my legs over to stand up. I immediately regret this decision when I get the one-two punch of screaming ribs and unreasonably excessive coughing. When I can breathe again, I’m humiliated to see them hovering over me.
“I’ll carry ya.” Ethan’s arms are already stretched out.
“No! Just… give me a minute, okay?”
After my head stops swimming, I take some slow, cautious breaths. “Doc, can you please help me?”
There’s a low growl and for a second I think there’s a dog in the room until I realize it’s coming from Ethan. Oddly pleased by infuriating him, I don’t even argue when he takes one of my arms and she gets under my other arm, wedging her shoulder to help take some of the weight off.
“How long can it take to just walk across the room?” I grit out. I’m as slow as an octogenarian who’s lost their walker. And theirfeet. And their stamina. By the time we get into the bathroom, I’m sweating through my borrowed t-shirt and feel disgusting.
“Ya made it, good girl,” Ethan’s so close that I can feel his lips against my ear. A little shiver passes through me and I’m instantly disgusted with myself. This asshole kidnapped me!
“I’ve got it from here,” Dr. MacTavish sounds like she might be fighting back a little amusement from his looming, hovering, over the top behavior.
“I can-”
“Actually, I would really like to go to the bathroom,” I wheeze, still sweating like I ran a 10K. “If I could please have some privacy?”
She pats my arm. “Beathan, I’ve got her. Can you shut the door and give her some privacy?”
Oh, I can tell this iskillinghim and spitefully, it’s my happiest moment from this last week of hell.
I shuffle painfully to the toilet, this is humiliating but at least she’s female and a professional, and it’s nothimholding my arm while I pull down my undies.
“Wait.” I don’t recognize the panties tangled around my ankles. “These aren’t mine.”
She smiles, leaning against the counter and folding her arms, “Well, we couldn’t leave you in the same clothes for the last four days. He sent out one of his cousins to pick up some basics for you.”
“How- um, how have I been going to the bathroom?”
“We used a bedpan, dear. You were in no condition to get up.” She sees my horrified expression and her lips twitch. “A manwho can handle a bedpan without getting all squeamish is a rare man indeed.”
Burying my face in my hands, I try to ignore her.
Helping me off the toilet, she leads me to the counter. “If you can stand for a moment, I can give you a quick sponge bath.”
I want to say no, but I am disgusting and even a sponge bath sounds good. When I see my reflection in the mirror, I yelp in horror. “I look like someone shoved me in a trashcan and rolled me down six flights of stairs.”
“Oddly specific, but all right,” she laughs. Handing me a towel, she helps me wrap it around my chest before taking off the t-shirt. Most of my bruises and scrapes from the crash and wilderness death march are gone, and even the ocean of black and blue skin over my ribs is showing hopeful signs of retreating, with the black mellowing to a sickly yellow around the edges. By the time she’s done tidying me up, I’m already swaying and hanging on to the counter.
“Beathan? We’ll need your help getting back to bed.” She opens the door and of course, the giant stalker is standing there.
“No! I can-” He’s already scooped me up. The sheets have been changed, covers pulled back and pillows fluffed. The Scottish Demon fluffspillows?
He hooks my oxygen back up and refills my saline for my IV line with an unnerving deftness. Does he do this often? To like… keep people alive while he’s questioning them?
“Your pulse is all over the place,” Dr. MacTavish says disapprovingly, looping her stethoscope around her neck. “Let’s let you rest for a bit and see if you can keep down some food, yes?”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. “I feel guilty that you’ve been forced to camp out here, just for me. The MacTavishes are mafia, for god’s sake. I’m sure there’s been innumerable bullet wounds and stabbings since I’ve been laid up.”
