She opens her mouth, but no protest comes. Just a shaky exhale, her eyes searching mine. The bond flares, both of our wrists glowing softly, pulsing in unison.
I buckle her in, close the door, and then round the truck. I settle into the driver’s seat, and we head out of the forest.
Eight
Norah
The doctor’s office is located in an old bungalow with white washed walls and a steeply slanted brown roof. Rowan easily maneuvers his truck into a parking spot, and the sight of his big hands on the steering wheel has almost been enough of a distraction to make me forget about the angry throbbing in my arm.
Almost, because it hurts. A lot.
Embarrassment floods me at how much I panicked over the sight of all that blood coming out of my arm. I’m a huge wimp when it comes to blood. Feeling the warm, stickiness of it trickling over my skin…I thought I was going to pass out.
Still. I wish I’d kept it together in front of Rowan. Not that it matters.
The truck door creaks as Rowan pushes it open, his boots hitting the gravel before he rounds the front to help me down. His hands span my waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing, and for a second, I’m suspended in the air, close enough to feel the heat of his body, to catch the faintest hint of something warm andyummy smelling that I’m pretty sure is just his skin. He sets me down gently, fingers lingering on my waist. He’s so much taller than me, so big and broad, that he blocks out everything.
I should pull away. For my own sanity, I should. But the way he’s looking at me right now, all protective and hot, makes my heart pound so hard that my chest aches.
We enter the small building, and I’m immediately hit with the smell of antiseptic and lavender air freshener. Rowan’s hand hovers at the small of my back as we check in, his touch light but the exact thing I need right now. The clinic is empty, thankfully, and we only have to wait a few minutes before I’m called back.
Rowan doesn’t ask. He just follows me into the examination room, his hand once again on the small of my back.
The exam room is small but clean, with white walls and brightly coloured posters on the wall advertising pneumonia vaccines for seniors, a weight loss study looking for volunteers, and a weekly class for expectant parents. The paper crinkles under me as I hoist myself up onto the table. My movements are a bit awkward because I’m currently pretending that my left arm doesn’t exist to avoid thinking about the cut, the blood, the stiches I’ll probably need. Rowan leans against the wall, arms crossed, not taking his eyes off me. The doctor—a middle-aged man with a kind smile—steps in, clipboard in hand.
“Norah Marlowe?” he asks, glancing between us.
I nod.
He turns to Rowan. “And you are?” There’s no animosity in his tone, just curiosity.
“I’m her husband,” says Rowan easily, and all of the air goes out of my lungs.
The doctor nods, unfazed, completely oblivious to the riot taking place inside me. My heart is a wild bird in my chest, my stomach a mass of butterflies.
Husband. The word echoes in my head, and I can’t seem to think. It’s not real. It’s magic. But the way he said it—so sure, so steady—makes my stomach twist.
Makes my foolish heart hope. But then I remember how badly he wants to get rid of the bond, and I tell myself he only said that so he wouldn’t get kicked out of the room.
“And what brings you in today?” asks the doctor, sitting down on a little stool with wheels on the bottom.
“She fell. We’re working on an archeaological dig not far from here, and she fell about ten feet into an open pit,” answers Rowan.
“Goodness, you’ve had quite the day,” he says, looking at me. He checks my pupils while asking if I hit my head.
“No, I landed mostly on my hip and shoulder,” I say, and he nods. “I cut my arm on a rock, though.”
“Let’s take a look,” he says. He pulls on a pair of latex gloves and then peels back the gauze on my arm. I try not to, but I flinch. The gash is deeper than I thought, and about two inches long. The doctor hums, pressing gently around the edges. I wince.
“Yes, this needs cleaning and stitches.”
“How—how many?” I ask, voice wavering.
The doctor hums again and tilts his head. “Probably ten or so, I’d think.”
My stomach drops. I hate needles. Hate the idea of something sharp piercing my skin, pulling, tugging—
Oh god, I’m going to be sick.
