Page 57 of Lethal Devotion
"I'm going to prescribe something mild," Dr. Francis says, scribbling on her prescription pad. "But I also want to talk about therapy. Trauma doesn't just go away on its own."
“I don’t really want to talk to anyone,” I say quickly. “I’d rather just… see how it goes. Maybe some better sleep will help. I could come back next appointment and then we see…”
“Mrs. Kutnezsov…” Dr. Francis pauses. “I’m not accustomed to handing out medication without following it up with therapy as well as prescriptions. But as long as you make it to your next appointment, we can start with the mild sleeping pill and go from there. I won’t approve any refills until you’ve come back.”
The use of my married name still catches me off guard. "I... maybe. I'll think about it. I’d rather start with just getting some sleep."
“She’s fine,” Damian cuts in. “It’s nightmares, that’s all. She’s not depressed, or anything like that.”
Dr. Francis looks at him sharply. “Mr. Kutnezsov, trauma affects everyone differently. Sometimes the people we love need professional help to heal."
Damian doesn't respond, but I see his jaw tighten. He looks at me, and I look back at the doctor.
“I’ll come back for a follow-up. I promise,” I say quickly, hoping I can actually keep that promise. I don’t have health insurance. If all of this has blown over in a month—andGod, I hope it has—I won’t be able to afford the appointment or the prescription. But I’m just going to take the meds for now, and figure it out later.
“Alright. I’ll call it into the pharmacy. We’ll schedule your next appointment as well. As for everything else, you look healthy and in good shape.”
As we're leaving the office, I'm struck by how carefully Damian positions himself between me and everyone else. How his eyes constantly scan our surroundings. How he opens doors for me and keeps his hand on the small of my back, guiding me.
It's protective. Possessive, even.
And despite everything, it makes me feel safe in a way I've never experienced before.
"Thank you," I say as we get back in the car, Damian checking it thoroughly before letting me get in.
He glances over at me. "For what?"
"For taking care of me. For making sure I'm okay." I bite my lip. “For making the appointment, and…”
Something flickers across his face, but it's gone before I can identify it. "You’re my wife. It’s my job to protect and take care of you. It’s what I said I would do.”
His job. It stings, a little, to hear him say it that way. But I see his jaw clench, his hands tighten on the steering wheel, and I wonder what he’s really feeling, under that response. I wish I knew.
I wish he would tell me.
I can’t help but feel that this marriage might have been a good thing. That maybe it was a stroke of luck, in a life that, for me, has largely gone wrong in every possible way.
But Damian won’t open up to me, I know that. He barely treats me like his wife, other than to step in when I need protection or care.But marriage is more than that—even I know that. And if he won’t meet me halfway, then this won’t work at all.
I don’t even know if he wants it to work. If he wants anything more than to feel as if he’s completed the mission he set himself on when he took me from the warehouse, and then move on.
But a part of me is starting to feel as if I do. And as Damian starts the car, pulling out of the parking garage, I have no idea what to do about that.
Or if I should even try.
17
DAMIAN
The drive back from the doctor's office feels like every other security detail I've run in the past fifteen years—routine surveillance, constant awareness, controlled environment. Except nothing about this is routine, and I'm lying to myself if I pretend otherwise.
I keep catching glimpses of Sienna out of the corner of my eye as I drive her to the pharmacy, and then start back toward the estate. She's staring out the window, her prescription bottle clutched in her delicate hands from when she was studying it a moment ago, and something about the vulnerable curve of her shoulders makes my chest tight. The way she thanked me earlier, so genuine and soft, keeps replaying in my head like a broken record.
It's my job,I told her. The words tasted like ash in my mouth.
It doesn’t feel like a job. It feels like something else, like something I’ve wanted for a long time and taught myself to stop. Like something I’m not allowed to have.
I’ve had to avoid her entirely just to keep from touching her again. I’ve dreamt of her every fucking night—of how it felt to kiss her, of how her mouth felt around my cock, of how she tasted on my tongue.The dreams stop before I get to fuck her, every time, because now I have something real to dream about. Something we’ve done. Something easy to imagine, andfuck, if I’m not imagining it every second that my mind isn’t occupied with something else.
