Either way, I know it’s tactless when the words come out of my very dry, sandy mouth. I want to shove them back inimmediately, drink water, and then go to sleep because I can feel myself painfully sobering up. But it’s too late for that.
“I got you meds, by the way.”
That’s all I say. It’s enough to make Tadhg’s entire face crumple and every hint of post-orgasmic bliss straight up flee the building.
“What? What meds?”
“Your psych meds. The ones you had to cold turkey from when you were dragged up here. There are a lot of online subscription providers now. I went snooping when I was getting that discreet STD panel for Tobias and I finally found one that I was able to talk into giving me the exact prescription you were on before.”
“Bambi… You can’t. That’s the whole point, I can’t have my name on stuff. It just makes me easier to find. Fuck!”
“No, no, no—I put it under my name. Don’t worry, every single scrap of paperwork says ‘Micah Alexander’ on it. Which will hopefully not reach my bosses.” I reach out to cup his face, because the panic is already rising in him, and I can see him fighting the urge to crawl out of bed and start doing something unnecessary. “I knew what to say so it sounded like I was just restarting a prescription I’d had before. Honestly, it’s easy if you understand the meds. It’s unethical, sure. But I think we crossed that bridge back when I was burning your fucking clothes. They won’t be traced to you, doll. I promise. It’s fine.”
Tadhg freezes. I can see the gears working in his brain, and I suddenly get the impression he’s searching for another argument against it. Which doesn’t make sense.
He needed these meds so badly that he went out and got them on his own, once upon a time. He had to keep it a secret from everyone he knew, and he’d probably been told that using them made him sick or weak or something. So why is he resistingthe idea now, when he has so much more support and so much less to lose?
Shaking his head, Tadhg rolls onto his back and looks away from me.
“I don’t want them, Bambi. I’m fine now. I just want to focus on getting out and then everything will be fine.”
Quelling the anger that statement inspires physically fucking hurts. But I do it, because this is his fucking brainwashing talking. And as much as I love to think I’m right about everything all the time, yelling at him about this is probably not going to help anyone’s mental health.
I move closer to him, not letting him get away from me. Propped up on one elbow, I place my hand flat on his chest and trace a path through the faint golden hair that covers his tattoos.
“No. You’re not fine. You’re coasting, and that’s not going to work out long term.”
He doesn’t pull away from me, but he does continue to look anywhere but my eyes. There’s yet another long pause before he speaks, and I’m forced to go to my work-brain instead of my normal brain to find the patience to wait.
I am not, by nature, a patient person. Especially when the man I love’s life is on the line.
That thought makes my brain screech to a halt, though. Is that what’s happening here? Are weinlove? I love him, of course. I’ve always loved him. And lusted after him, since we met as adults. But has all of that combined to being in love?
No part of my mind or body hesitates to give me the answer.
Yes.
So, I have to protect him at all costs. From himself as well as the Banna.
“Talk to me, doll.” I have to prompt him when he doesn’t speak for too long. “I know this is difficult, but avoiding the conversation isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“About what? I don’t need them. I’m an adult and you’re not going to force me. Just drop it.”
The snap to his voice has me very fucking concerned about how I’ve managed to unintentionally touch a nerve.
“Oh, hell no,” I say as I sit up, leaning back and pushing him until he’s also scooting up to a sitting position. All that restraint I was holding on to before burns away, and I’m left with nothing but the anger and the alcohol fueling me now. “If you’re going to be so defensive about this that you would rather pick a fight with me—me,your fucking Bambi, asshole—than talk to me about it, then we are definitely fucking talking about it. Spill. Whatever’s cooking inside your head just tell me. Don’t make me tie you up and edge it out of you because I am too fucking tired, and I have to work tomorrow.”
I pair this rant with a little eyelash fluttering that always seems to make him melt for me, then pinch his belly when he still hesitates too long.
“Ow!”
“Speak!” I snap.
I am fresh out of fucks right now.
Tadhg rubs his belly where I pinched him, pouting at me in a way I’ve never seen him do before that is so fucking adorable I want to throw up. But now’s not the time.
“Jesus, Micah. You’re fucking savage.”
