Page 71 of Merciless
He smiled through his next kiss. "Forgiven?"
"Forgiven."
Twenty-Eight
REAPER
It was another week before I was cleared to go home.
Mari and the doctor got me up and out of bed the same day I woke up. I had to use a walker to get around the first two days, like I didn't feel fucking old and feeble enough. Then I moved on to a cane, which wasn't as bad. As long as I had a wall or something for support, I could swat Mari on the ass with it.
By the time I was discharged, I could walk, eat, and do most basic tasks on my own. But there were some things, both tangible and not, that I knew were permanently changed.
The nerve damage in my left hand caused me to lose feeling in my pinky and ring fingers. I could still hold objects and grip the handlebars of a bike, but I would never be able to fully extend those fingers.
I had areas without feeling on my head too, which I didn't realize until Mari was scratching my scalp one day. We had a whole back-and-forth, much to the other guys' amusement, where I thought she'd stopped but she insisted she didn't.
Mari and the others remained sleeping in my room, staying with me through downtime and my rigorous physical therapy. The guys only went home to grab food, clothes, and to feed the animals, who I missed more than I thought I would. Even that fucking rooster.
I grumbled about never having time to myself, but I was glad for their company, for the normalcy of it. To see the guys acting like dipshits with each other and being affectionate with Mari, it was everything. They filled me in on what happened, and I formally met Mari's parents for the first time. Her dad strolled into my room, spent the first five minutes speaking exclusively Spanish, and everyone thought it was hilarious.
I was weeks behind everyone else, but the reality started sinking in for me as more time passed. It was really fucking over.
The life we wanted, the world we'd been fighting for, it was here. And it was real.
Still, it was a crushing disappointment when I was told I couldn't ride my bike out of the hospital when discharged.
"Mari, tell 'em." I flung my hand in exasperation at the medics who kept telling me no. "I can fucking walk, dress, and feed myself. I can definitely fucking ride."
"Nope, sorry, love." She looked a little too delighted to be saying no to me as well. "I'm with them. You're much better, but you still have strength and balance to rebuild."
"Shadow can give you a piggyback ride," Jandro chimed in helpfully.
The big guy stared at him. "Don't volunteer me for shit."
"Your dad's on his way with the car," Gunner said through barely-controlled laughter.
"Great," I grumbled. "Dad's picking me up. How old am I again?"
"You'll be riding again before you know it." Mari rubbed my back, the only one trying to genuinely be helpful.
My dad pulled up not long after in his black SUV, while Mari and the others would ride home and meet us there. When Dad stepped out to hug me, I was surprised to see him in his pressed general's uniform.
"Aren't you out of a job now, General?" I cracked, slapping his back. "Thought you'd be decked out for golf or whatever retired people do."
"Sadly, not yet." He opened the passenger door for me with a chuckle, then elaborated when he got into the driver's seat. "We have a lot of diplomatic threads to iron out with Blakeworth and other neighboring territories. And now that New Ireland is free for the taking, we want to make sure its new occupants can remain civil."
"Someone looking to move in already?"
"A few," he confirmed, driving out onto the road. "We have a unit at the fortress just to maintain the place and make a smooth transition once we've established some agreements."
The drive was mostly quiet after that. I wasn't thinking of anything besides getting to the house. Would itfeellike coming home or would everything be different? I figured as long as Mari and the guys were there, I could deal with any changes the place had gone through.
It wasn't until we crossed the small bridge into our still-developing neighborhood that my dad asked, "How are you, son? I mean really."
The question pulled me out of my simple fantasy of sitting on the back patio with a cigar and some whiskey. "I'm alright, I guess. I'll be better once I have somewhere soft to land."
"This is me you're talking to," he reminded me, pulling into our long, gravel driveway. "I've seen torture, son. I've seen what it does to people."
