Her gaze shifted back to me. A single unreadable look, but she didn’t argue. She didn’t need to. We both knew that I could not move about the house freely, between my busted ankle and the restrictions of the situation. She chuckled under her breath, then crossed to the door and left. The click of the lock punctuated the otherwise silent room.
I sipped the coffee again, hiding the twist in my chest. The four walls were already getting to me; I hated being confined. I lifted a forkful of eggs instead, pretending I didn’t care that this small act of being fed made me feel caged.
I set the fork down after a few bites and let my eyes slide to the end of the bed. The bandage tugged every time I moved, a reminder that even my body wasn’t fully mine right now. The thought of the shower gnawed at me too. I could almost feel hot water washing the stale sweat away, loosening the knots in my shoulders. If I just unwrapped the ankle, balanced on the crutches, I could manage. The bathroom wasn’t far.
I imagined unwrapping my ankle and showering. I could do it. I could prove I was not helpless.
The fantasy cracked when I heard movement outside the door. The creak of weight shifting, faint but unmistakable. Was Cam out there, babysitting me?
I exhaled, annoyed. Of course one of them was there. I stared at the crutches, then at the door. I wanted more coffee. I wanted to get out of this room. I needed fresh air, and this time, no one was going to stop me.
I maneuvered to the edge of the bed and reached for my suitcase, pulling free a pair of comfy yoga pants and a pair of panties. I worked them over and up my legs slowly, avoiding the pull on my ankle. I slipped a sweatshirt over my nightshirt and stood, balancing myself on one foot, then slipped the crutches under my armpits. I hadn’t used a pair of crutches since I broke my leg in eighth grade, but by the time I got to the door, I had gotten the hang of them.
I cracked the door open and swung myself through the threshold.
“May I ask what the hell you’re doing, Ms. Barrett?”
So she could speak in more than one-word sentences.
“I’m going downstairs. I need to move around.” I raised my chin defiantly, daring her to stop me. She didn’t, though she did raise one eyebrow.
I placed the crutches one step ahead of me and swung myself into the hall. I could do this. I’m an award-winning journalist. I didn’t need someone to carry me everywhere. Or anywhere, for that matter.
By the time I reached the top of the staircase, I was much less sure. Goddamnit. Moving on a flat surface was one thing, but these steep stairs unnerved me. I could go down on my ass, like I did last night, but that felt too humiliating by the light of day. I couldn’t take another scolding like the one Ellie had given me.
I hated the thought of needing help so much, I felt it burn through me. I hated more the thought of admitting it out loud. But the longer I stood there, the clearer it became. I was not making it down the stairs alone.
My throat tightened around the words before I forced them out. “Cam,” I called, louder than I meant to. She waited, eyes on me. My pride stung as I asked, “Can you help me downstairs?”
Her mouth quirked in a smile as she strode down the hall. When she reached my side, she took the crutches from me and held them in one hand. She slid the other arm under mine and lifted me with a steady pull, guiding me against her side before I had the chance to falter.
I held my body tense, trying to prove I could still manage some of it myself, but her hand stayed firm at my waist. The solid weight of it told me plainly she had control of this, not me. Each step down was paced to her rhythm, not mine.
At the bottom, she slid her arm around the back of my waist, making sure I was balanced before she handed me the crutches. Her hand lingered just long enough to remind me I was only down here because she allowed it. The dominance in that silence rang louder than words ever could, and I felt the crack in my pride split a little wider.
Cam followed me to the table without a word, watching as I awkwardly lowered myself into a chair. She took the crutches from me and leaned them against the wall, then stepped back. She crossed her arms and took up a silent post against the counter. Watching, waiting, present without needing to announce herself.
Ellie looked up from the counter. She had a mug in one hand, a rifle leaned within reach. Her eyes swept over me, pausing at my foot before returning to my face. “How’s the ankle?” she asked.
“Fine,” I said too quickly. I shifted in the chair, hiding the throb that had started again after the move downstairs. I refused to wince, refused to give her that satisfaction.
She arched a brow but let it go. “You need anything adjusted? Wrapping too tight?”
“I said it’s fine.” My tone carried more bite than I meant, but I held it. If she noticed, she didn’t react.
“You eat what I sent up?”
I nodded. “Yes but… is there more?”
“Sure is. Orange juice or coffee? Bacon? Eggs? Fruit?” She pulled a fresh plate from the cabinet and moved to the stove.
“Yes. I mean… whatever is fine.” All of the above sounded good, but I didn’t want to sound too eager.
Ellie set a plate of bacon, eggs, and fresh strawberries in front of me, along with a mug of coffee and a cold glass of orange juice. A moment later, she set two ibuprofen next to the glass.
I reached for the coffee and took a sip, letting the bitterness anchor me. My eyes wandered across the room, catching on the details I hadn’t seen the night before. Clean counters, big windows that overlooked the yard, and a stove that looked like it cost my annual salary. It looked like a normal kitchen, albeit much larger than the one in my apartment.
“Where are the others?” I asked.
