He doesn’t talk about her, but I can tell, sometimes, he goes somewhere else. Given everything else I know about his life from the scraps I’ve scraped together, I hope he’s with her and not sinking into some other kind of darkness.
I should probably be jealous, but I’m not. There’s no use in competing with someone who’s no longer here. Not when all I want to do is help him heal as much as he’s helped me.
After he gets me off, he slinks out of bed and tells me to rest.
I don’t plan to argue. I’m still exhausted.
But I’m not alone for long. Doc shows up with a tray of breakfast—melon, strawberries, and pineapple with a soft boiled egg and rye toast. So very specific. So very my preferences. The knowing glint in his eyes belies his otherwise calm demeanor.
I don’t know how he does that. If I let my eyes show my real thoughts, my body has betrayed me already.
He also has tea. In a pot. With a cup and saucer. For me.
Doc’s smile softens the rest of him as he sets the tray on the side table. He sits at my knees and strokes his fingers through my hair. It makes me want to purr. I stretch, drawing his attention down my body.
“No more tingling in your fingers and toes?” Doc’s voice is soft. Gentle. Calm.
I almost want to laugh, but I don’t. He’s being serious. “No tingling.”
A nod. “And your violin? Have you played?”
I shake my head. No, I haven’t needed to.
“You should. After breakfast.” He points at the tray and helps me sit up.
Usually, I’m self-conscious eating. The people in my world are all slender and petite. I am neither of those things, often hearinghushed comments about the size of my hips and ass. How I shouldn’t eat that tart or put sugar and milk in my tea because I’m big.
But the way Doc runs his palm up and down my thigh, measuring the width with his thumb, encourages me. He gives me a squeeze where my thigh meets my hip and drowns me with the lust in his dark eyes.
I have to force my breathing to slow. To stay even as I stir my tea. I use it as a barrier before Doc slides further down the bed, rubbing my shins and calves. It gives me enough confidence to eat. Before I’m done, he moves to my ankles, feet, and toes.
I groan when he pops them.
I’m on my second cup of tea when he finally stops.
“Your violin.” He makes a pointed gesture to where it sits on the dresser. Saint hasn’t moved it, so I’ve left it there.
“As the doctor prescribes.” I crawl out of bed, pausing in front of his knees to caress his rough cheek.
I’m hit with the emotion in his eyes again, making me step closer. I fall into his embrace, his hands coming around the backs of my thighs. I lean in for a kiss, enjoying him in this slow moment. We haven’t had many of those.
But after heat builds, he pats my ass and pulls back. A soft reprimand to obey him.
Who knew a little discipline would be such a turn on?
Still, I do as I’m told: taking out my violin, tuning it, tightening my bow, spreading rosin over it, and tucking it under my chin.
The song that flows is slow, calm, almost twinkling, reminiscent of my morning, of being accepted, of growing.
Almost unaware of the turn of my notes, it builds steam, and I remember the way the police car took turns too hard. How the cuffs bit into my wrists and made my shoulders sore when I fought to keep myself upright. How the zip ties were worse.
The terror of being ripped from my bed with so little to keep me modest. Being at those officers’ mercy.
The way I screamed for Sin until my voice was hoarse. How I hid my face from the dead bodies. How I didn’t care about how covered in blood he was.
When my thoughts hit a crescendo, remembering how my night ended. How Sin, Doc, Saint…how they took care of me after. My song comes full circle: calm, peaceful, happy.
Like I’m finally home.
