The barest hint of a smile tugged at his lips, and it was everything.
We drove the rest of the way in silence to my condominium building. Once parked, I stepped out and came around to open his door, helping him out of the car. We took the elevator up to the third floor and I led him to my door, ushering him inside.
“This way,” I said, guiding him up the stairs to the spare bedroom and lowering him onto the bed. “I’m trained in first aid. I get why you don’t want to go to a hospital, but would you permit me to evaluate you? Nothing invasive, basic care only, for my peace of mind?”
He took another long moment before he answered. “Okay.”
“Okay, good, thank you. I’m going to grab my first aid kit. I’ll be right back.”
Upon returning with the kit I asked, “Would it be alright if I sit next to you while I look you over? I won’t touch you anywhere that isn’t necessary.”
“Oo . . . okay.”
“Thank you,” I said, sitting beside him, mindful to leave whatever distance I could while still tending to him.
“May I remove your shirt?”
Oliver nodded, lifting his arms, with a hiss through his teeth. I helped him ease it off. Seeing his bare torso, I let out a hiss of my own. Bruises covered him—deep, dark ones across his ribs, stomach, back. Big, ugly splashes of purple and black. Vincent had beaten him senseless. The cruelty was staggering.
Anger shot through my chest, wanting blood and justice, but I shoved it down. I couldn’t let that loose, not when Oliver could see it and think it was aimed at him.
I forced myself to look with a level head, even though my gut twisted at the sight. This wasn’t just “bruised up.” This was the kind of beating that put people in morgues. I started running through worst-case scenarios—broken ribs could puncture lungs, internal bleeding... And that eye? If the wrong bone was cracked, vision could be gone for good. And a head injury could lead to more than just a concussion. My concerns doubled, tripled.
A part of me wanted to scoop him up, ignore every protest, and drive straight to the ER. Better he be upset me with me and alive than dead.
Slow down. One thing at a time. Evaluate first. Don’t spiral, I reminded myself.
“Are you feeling dizzy at all? Nausea still present? Any flashes of light or blurry vision?”
“A little dizzy. Nausea’s better. I can’t see out of my left eye but my right is fine.”
Okay. Okay. Those answers were promising.
“That helps. We’ll keep monitoring for any changes. Next, may I check your ribs?” I asked. “I’d be looking for any bumps or abnormalities that might signal a break?” At his nod, I felt around his ribs. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”
A stilted inhale followed my request accompanied by a weak whimper.
“Can you describe how that felt? Is it worse when you breathe? Any sharp, piercing pain?”
“It’s uncomfortable and painful when I breathe deep, but it’s more of a dull ache.”
Probably not broken, then. Another relief, and astounding. “Your ribs are bruised, but I don’t think they’re broken. Let me know if the pain or your breathing changes, though, and if at any point your condition worsens, I’ll be taking you to a hospital, okay?”
Panic and protest flared in his expression.
“I’ll only do that if we have to. But if your symptoms worsen it could mean something is going on internally that could be fatal if untreated, and that’s not something we can ignore.”
His reply came meek and resigned. “Okay.”
Moving to his face, I assessed the damage. Jesus, one side had to have swelled to twice its normal size. His lips resembled a puffer fish’s, his eyelid sealed shut, the surrounding bone blown up like a blimp. It churned my stomach to look at.
Reaching for a cloth, I cleaned the small cuts and abrasions, dabbing at the split on his lip and dried blood on his brow and nose. He flinched once, then stilled.
“You’re doing great,” I murmured. “Almost done.”
Task complete, I brought him a clean shirt and a pair of sweatpants. “You can change if you’d like. They’ll be big on you, but the pants have a drawstring and they’re comfortable. I’ll be back with some ice to help with the swelling.”
Closing the door behind me to give him some privacy, I left for the kitchen, retrieving gel ice packs from the freezer, filling a glass with cold water from the filter, and grabbing a bottle of ibuprofen from the cupboard.
