Page 127 of Breaking Point
Grabbing a towel off the hook, I gently place it under her head to replace my leg and dart from the bathroom. I not only locate the cabinet but her heat pack stash. There are dozens.
Dozens.
And she no doubt has that many for a reason. I heat up three, just to be safe.
Quickly passing her the burning heating packs, I’m about to tell her to wait a moment to let them cool down but she just lifts her shirt and places them—all three—directly on her lower stomach, sighing contentedly at the burn.
I’m going to have to bring all of this up later. I’m going to have to research more about this so I don’t say the wrong thing because this is nowhere near as awful as what Google described.
I brush the hair off her face and soak up the relief shining in her dazed features. Without thinking, I lower my lips to her forehead before I whisper, “I’m going to unlock the door for the ambulance. I’ll be right back, I promise.”
Moving through the front room, I open the door and turn on the porch lights right as the ambulance pulls up.
The relief I feel is so fast and swift it could bring me to my knees, but Bella still needs me. As I walk them toward the bathroom, I’m irritated by how leisurely their gait is. Biting my cheek, I open the door. “Bella, the paramedics are here.”
They step in right as her body starts to convulse again, bringing up more of the water she just drank.
“What medication have you taken?” one of the paramedics asks.
He’s probably around my age, shorter by a good few inches. He kneels and picks up the bottle I grabbed from her bedside table.
She can’t talk because she’s still heaving so I interject, “She just took two roughly fifteen minutes ago?—"
The older paramedic, who looks strikingly close to my father, rumbles, “Which she clearly didn’t keep down.”
I grimace at the toilet. “Yeah.”
“Anything else?” the older paramedic behind me asks as the younger one begins to check Bella’s vitals.
She pulls away from the toilet, her hands shaking as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I haven’t been able to move to grab anything else.”
“Anything to warrant this bad flare-up? Drugs? Alcohol? Sex?”
The older gentleman looks me up and down as ifI’mthe problem. My back stiffens at his tone and line of questioning. How the fuck is it her fault that it’s bad?
I must show something on my face because Bella’s soft voice draws my attention. “Grayson, it’s okay.”
“The fuck it is,” I spit before I can stop myself.
The older paramedic’s eyes narrow but I pay him no attention as the younger one ruffles through his bag. “We need to hospitalize her. She’s severely dehydrated and needs fluid ASAP.”
The paramedic behind me dips his head, still looking to Bella for answers to his questions.
“No,” she says, her voice hard as she pins him with a glare. “No to all three. I had chicken soup the night this flare-up turned bad and I was watching a sports game. Nothing provoked this but shitty hormones and the cysts covering my ovaries.”
The dipshit purses his lips before giving a flat smile. “Very well, can you walk to the ambulance?”
“I wouldn’t have called if she could walk,” I find myself growling under my breath. “In case you forgot she’s been stuck on the floor for two days, so no, she can’t fucking walk.”
Bella jumps in to add with a sickly-sweet smile, “Unless you want me to collapse to my knees and break something on the pavement when the pain slices through my uterus?”
Is it odd that I’m turned on by this hard side of hers?
The younger paramedic rises, clearing his throat. “We don’t want that, Bill. Go get the stretcher.”
Bill huffs but spins and walks out.
“Sorry about that. He’s been a bit…grouchy lately,” the young man apologizes.
