“Okay,” she whispers, her eyes growing heavy again.
“Get some sleep, baby. Soon, everything will be back to normal.”
Chapter 36
Faith
“I’ll be comfortable anywhere else,” I grumble, shifting on the hospital bed.
I’ve never had to stay overnight in a hospital before, and I pray I never will again. There’s no such thing as darkness here, even after Ethan growled at the nurses that came in to check on me several times last night, interrupting my restless sleep. Light seeps under the door from the hall lights, and around the blinds on the window from the parking lot. Always light.
I imagine based on past trauma, many people wouldn’t crave darkness, but I was tortured with light, and I want the opposite of that.
I feel safe. Ethan hasn’t left my side all night. If he needed something or I mentioned a tangible thing, he picked up his phone and it was delivered not long after to the room.
Ethan is the only person I’ve seen besides medical staff and Sylvie who came by for a quick visit earlier, but he’s hinted more than once that I’m safe and can rest, that Cerberus won’t let anything happen to me. I imagine more than one member right outside the room, standing guard.
“You’ll get released soon,” he says, his voice filled with the same exhaustion I’m feeling.
I keep my eyes locked on the silent television mounted across the room as if the morning show playing is the most interesting thing.
What I’ve been trying to keep myself from focusing on is his declaration from last night.
Soon, everything will be back to normal.
I don’t know which normal he’s referring to—the one where we’re together at the clubhouse, or the lonely existence I muddled through before we met.
I desperately want it to be the former, but everything in my body tells me to shore up my emotions because he’s talking about the latter.
Eventually, the discharge paperwork is brought in and signed, and although he was adamant about carrying me into the ambulance and the hospital last night, he simply reaches for my arm in assistance, his touch minimal because he’s reluctant to touch me at all.
Tears burn my nose and the backs of my eyes, and I pray if any of them fall, he’ll presume they’re because I ache so much. And I do. I hurt all over, but the sharpest pain is in my chest right now.
He doesn’t leave my side as we make our way out of the hospital. He even sits in the back of the SUV with me while Apollo drives us back to the clubhouse. I should open my mouth and tell them to take me to a hotel, but I don’t think I can be alone right now. I don’t want distance between us. I want to cling to him in desperation, whereas he’s hell-bent on keeping several inches between us.
I thank him as he helps me climb out in front of the clubhouse, and I’ve thanked so many people so many times since last night that I’m getting on my own nerves with the two words. Every thank you is a debt owed, and at this point, I’ll never be debt free. I owe Cerberus everything, and despite it being their jobs and the hospital getting paid, the medical staff there were so kind, I feel like I owe them so much more than verbal gratitude.
There isn’t a soul around when we enter the clubhouse, and even Apollo splits off from us without a word. I know this is purposeful. It’s midday. I’ve been in this clubhouse at this time of day several times, and I know it’s usually bustling with activity—members telling jokes, kids laughing and climbing on the furniture. I know they’ve distanced themselves so I don’t feel any more uncomfortable than I already do.
Once in Ethan’s room, he turns to face me, a small smile on his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You said you wanted a shower before leaving the hospital.”
“Yes,” I tell him, inching toward the bathroom with cautious movements.
I feel much better than I did last night, but there are still sore spots all over my body.
I bask in his attention as he helps me remove the clothes that were delivered silently to the hospital room this morning. I try to ignore the disgust in his eyes while his hands work to strip me down. I ignore his body when he strips as well, knowing it would gut me to see evidence of just how much he doesn’t want to be here right now by glancing down to see a flaccid dick.
I keep my eyes closed; my palms pressed against the shower wall as he runs a soapy cloth over my skin. Tears mix with the water streaming down my body when he washes and conditions my hair, and I pray he can’t differentiate the two. Crying for the loss of him would only make me feel more ashamed, more needy. If he asks what’s wrong, I don’t know that I’ll be able to lie to him, and the fear that my desperation will come to light keeps me mostly composed.