So that I can pretend she and the baby are all right.
My blood froze at Kent’s appearance, and I’m still not recovered fully. It doesn’t help that when I sprinted over, my ptichka was even more pale than she is now… even more breakable.
“Here we are,” I say soothingly as we approach the house. “We’ll get you into a shower right away, okay?” Her clothes are covered with dirt and grass stains, as are her palms, her knees, and half her face.
She doesn’t object—either to the shower or to my help undressing—which tells me how terrible she’s feeling. Yesterday, she’d been all about convincing me that she’s all right.
When I have her naked, I turn on the water and wait for the temperature to adjust. Then I usher her in and strip off my own clothes before joining her under the spray. The water immediately soaks my bandages, but I don’t care. I’m pretty sure those things can come off now, and I’ll be fine.
“What did you see, my love?” I ask gently as I pour soap into my hand. Despite my worry about her, my cock is hardening, lured by her silky skin and pink-tipped breasts. Ruthlessly, I suppress the urge to do anything but wash her. Sex won’t fix this, no matter how much I wish it could.
My ptichka needs to face whatever demons she is fighting.
She needs to let me—and herself—in.
She squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. “I can’t talk about it. I’m sorry.”
Fuck. I feel like putting my fist through the glass wall of the stall, but instead, I begin washing her, focusing on being as gentle as I can.
She doesn’t need any more violence.
She’s seen too much as is.
Worry, mixed with a healthy dose of guilt, is still devouring me from the inside as I feed Sara lunch. I shouldn’t have left her alone for those thirty minutes. I should’ve been there, done something to prevent this.
Hell, I should’ve protected her from the trauma in the first place.
To my relief, she seems much more recovered after the shower—to the point that she’s again trying to pretend that all is fine, that Kent didn’t find her curled up like a wounded child on the grass.
“Why don’t we let the therapist rest after her flight?” she says when I inform her that I’m taking her to see the doctor immediately after we eat. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to start the sessions.”
“She’ll rest after she talks to you.” I’m not putting this off—not after what I saw. Esguerra messaged me, wanting me to stop by his office after lunch, but I’m not leaving her alone again.
Henderson and all that shit can wait.
Sara sighs, poking at her kale salad, then looks up. “You do know that I’m not going to magically be cured if I talk to this doctor, right?” Her hazel eyes are troubled. “Therapy doesn’t always help in situations such as this.”
At least she’s finally acknowledging there is a “situation.”
Getting up, I walk around the table to her chair. “I know, my love,” I say softly, looking down at her upturned face. Placing my hands on her shoulders, I massage them, feeling the tension in the delicate muscles. “It won’t be magic, but it’ll be a start.”
And sinking to my knees beside her chair, I wrap my arms around her and hold her, needing to feel her heartbeat against mine.
Needing to convince myself that I can undo the damage I have done.
75
Sara
The doctor is a tall woman in her late forties. If Sandra Bullock had played the stylish boss/villain in The Devil Wears Prada, she might’ve looked something like this therapist, right down to the trendy designer glasses.
“Hello,” she says, sticking out her slim, perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Dr. Wessex.”
“Hi.” I shake her hand. “I’m Sara.”
We’re in another house similar to the one Peter and I are staying in, in a small office with a window facing the road. I can see Peter pacing around outside; Dr. Wessex was adamant that he couldn’t be present during my therapy session.
“It’s nice to meet you, Sara.” She takes a seat behind a glossy table, and I sit down on the reclining chair on the other side. “Your husband has told me a little bit about what brings you to me today, but I’d love to hear about it in your own words.”
I shift in my seat. “I’d really rather not talk about it.”
She cocks her head. “Why? Is it because it pains you?”
I take a breath as my chest compresses. “No. I mean, yes, of course. I just… don’t want to think about it.”
“Because your parents were killed?”
I flinch and look away.
“Or because something else happened?” the doctor presses. “Maybe something you have trouble processing?”
My breathing speeds up, and I clench my hands. As my nails dig into my palms, the small pain helps me stay focused on the present.