Page 41 of Dissonance

This isn’t procedure or protocol. Instinct doesn’t usually come with the certainty that, when it comes to her, there’s no line I won’t hesitate to cross.

Chapter Eighteen

Thea

I hate the smell of urgent care. All antiseptic and recycled air with faint metallic undertones, like anxiety has been scrubbed into the floors and never quite lifts, no matter how many times they mop.

“I told you, I’m fine,” I say, flexing my fingers, trying not to wince at the dull ache climbing up my arm. “It’s just a sprain.”

Lockie doesn’t answer. He’s been doing that since we arrived, standing by the window of the small assessment room, arms folded, staring out at the parking lot. I don’t need to see his face to know his jaw is locked, the muscles in it working with each breath, his dark eyes distant as he replays what happened.

Beyond giving my name at the desk and not correcting the nurse when she called him my husband, this has been his stance. Still, coiled, furious, grunting more than speaking actual words.

The protective paper beneath me crinkles as I shift on the bed.

“You can unclench,” I mutter. “I’m not dying.”

He turns then, and the look in his eyes before they flick to my arm and back to my face makes any reassurances feel small.

“You fell down a set of stairs.”

“Five stairs,” I say dryly. “I’ve survived worse.”

A low rumble comes from the back of his throat, lips parting to argue when the door swings open, and a nurse in blue scrubs steps inside, pulling it shut behind her.

“Hi, Thea?” She glances at her tablet, then Lockie, then back at me with a practiced smile.

“That’s me,” I say, shifting again.

“I’m going to run through a few things before we get you sorted, okay?”

She pulls over a stool, running through the standard questions—name, date of birth, allergies—entering each answer into her tablet. When she gets to my wrist, she examines it carefully, pressing in certain spots and watching my face.

“Most likely a sprain,” she says, “but I’d like to get an X-ray to confirm there’s no fracture. We’ll get that organized for you.”

I nod, relieved. Just a sprain. Like I knew it would be.

She continues through her checks, and I resist the urge to look at Lockie. It doesn’t stop me catching him out of the corner of my eye, though. The faint scrape of his boot against the floor as he repositions himself, the subtle deep inhale, and the way the air changes when she asks about the fall for her notes. I keep my eyes on her, on her fingers flying quick and efficiently, documenting everything.

“Any chance you could be pregnant?”

She asks it so lightly, almost offhandedly, the way they ask everyone. Glancing up, she looks at me from under her lashes, one perfectly manicured eyebrow raising as her gaze slides to Lockie again.

“No,” I snort, taken aback and quickly shaking my head. “I’m on the pill. Definitely not.”

Nodding, she taps the screen. “Okay, we’ll just do a quick urine test before we send you to imaging.”

“Sorry—what?”

Seriously? For a sprain? I check my watch, frustration starting to bubble. We’ve been here for an hour and a half already. I’m fine. I need to get back to the guys, the music video, check if Zane’s still causing problems. Instead, she wants me to pee in a cup when I already know what the result will be.

“It’s standard policy to screen women of childbearing age before imaging,” the nurse says, pushing the stool back. The wheels whoosh across the linoleum as she reaches into a drawer, pulling out one of those test strips, followed by a sample container. “The toilet’s down the hall to the left. Leave your sample on the counter.”

Sliding off the bed, I reach out and take the little cup. This time, I do look at Lockie, chin lifted, daring him to say a word. He holds my gaze, expression unreadable, and says nothing when I turn and head for the bathroom.

The room’s quiet when I return. Lockie’s migrated from the window to the far wall, studying a faded medical poster about fractures or sprains or whatever. He turns when the door clicks shut behind me.

“I don’t know why this is necessary,” I say more to myself than to him, pushing back onto the table one-handed. “I take it every day. This is overkill.”