"Am I wrong and you don't like me?" she murmurs in a hurt tone.
I meet her gaze. "You know it's not about liking you."
She tilts her head, her eyes tearful again.
"Shit. Come here." I tug her over my lap and hold her against me so she's not straddling me anymore.
Her body continues to shudder.
I stroke the side of her head and state, "You hurt yourself tonight. I came here to make sure you're safe."
"I am as long as you're here," she mumbles.
"Look at me," I softly order.
Her sad, confused, scared expression meets mine.
It sends a dangerous warmth through my chest. I keep my voice low and steady. "We're going to slow things down. You're safe right now. I'm here."
"Slow it down? So you're not ending it?" she asks.
Warning bells ring loudly in my head. I know what the proper response is and what I have to do. The only solution is to transfer her to another therapist and tell her I've been a horrible man and to stop fantasizing. There can never be anything real between us.
I don't do either.
Instead, I kiss the top of her head and reply, "I'm going to make sure you're safe tonight. If I didn't focus on that, I would never forgive myself. Can you understand that, Bluebird?"
Her breath evens out, inch by inch, like she's syncing to the cadence of my words. The chemistry between us hums under the surface, undeniable, unspoken, something I refuse to name.
Slowly, she looks up at me. "Okay, Red. We'll do it your way tonight."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Blue
Red leads me to my bedroom. His presence fills the space immediately, quiet but commanding, his attention sweeping the room in slow, measured lines. I linger by the bed, arms wrapped tight around my middle, pressing the pin marks. Pain throbs low and constant, tangled with a reckless surge of endorphins.
He shuts the bedroom door, and the metal clicks loud enough to echo in my chest. His slate-gray eyes darken, resting on me and creating a frenzy of butterflies that overpower the throb from my wounds.
The air feels different in my room. It's smaller, safer, and way too honest.
"You're shaking, Blue," he comments, not moving.
"I am?" I glance down and grip my hands together, trying to stop the tremors, but I can't. The air between us is too electric. His kisses still linger on my mouth, and now he's in my bedroom,agreeing to stay the night with me. I lick my lips then smile, adding, "I'm fine, Dr. Mercer."
He swallows hard, inhales deeply, releases it even slower, and scans the room. It's typical Red fashion, quiet and assessing, like he's cataloging exits and threats and risks. Then his gaze drops to the mattress.
The knife.
The pins.
Shame burns hot and fast up my spine. I tried not to do it. I almost stopped myself, but then I convinced myself that only one would take away the urge. After the first poke, the pain numbed my racing thoughts but only for a brief moment. So I kept going, feeling a high on each deep prick that wore off faster and faster until the blood dripped across my stomach and I realized what I had done.
Red swiftly crosses the room, his dress shirt taut across his shoulders. He gathers them up with deliberate care, like they're fragile, not dangerous, and puts them away in a drawer across the room, out of sight and out of reach.
My throat tightens. I force a hint of lightness into my voice, trying to hide my embarrassment. "You're thorough."
Worry floods his expression. "We have to work on other ways to deal with your emotions."
