Page 112 of Borrowed Pain
"Hey, yourself." He covered my hand with his, fingers still trembling, but his grip firm. "Took you long enough."
"Traffic was murder."
Miles laughed. It was the most beautiful thing I'd heard in weeks.
"Let's get you upstairs," I said. "Your family's been climbing the walls."
"Ma's here?"
"Ma's here. Along with Marcus, Michael, Alex, and enough federal firepower to flatten a small building." I helped him stand, supporting his weight as the drugs continued working their way out of his system. "They were ready to storm the place with or without official permission."
"Sounds about right." Miles leaned against me, warm and alive. "Rowan?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For not giving up. For finding the right people to help."
I wrapped my arm around his waist, anchoring him against me. "Thank you for fighting back and surviving."
***
In the hospital room on the seventh floor, Miles sat propped against pillows, color returning to his face as Matthew's pharmaceutical countermeasures worked their way through his system. Ma McCabe had commandeered the visitor's chair closest to the bed. She held Miles's hand between both of hers.
"The IV bruising will fade in a few days," she said, examining the angry purple mark on his arm where Harrow's technicians had inserted their poison. "But you're going to eat actual food for the next week. No arguments."
"Ma, I'm fine—"
"You're not fine. You're alive and you're yourself, which is more than I dared hope three hours ago." Her maternal authority was apparent. "Fine is what you'll be after proper rest, meals, and plenty of recovery time."
Marcus stood at the foot of the bed. "Federal prosecutors will want a detailed statement. Fortunately, not today. Maybe not this week. Medical recovery takes precedence over legal proceedings."
Michael paced the narrow space between the bed and the window. He'd shed his tactical vest but still moved like someone expecting trouble. "Alex is handling logistics—coordinating with hospital security and managing media inquiries."
"Media inquiries?" Miles asked.
"Harrow's arrest is making news. You're not just a victim, Miles. You're the witness who helped expose systematic criminal activity."
"I don't want to be famous for this," he said quietly.
"You won't be famous," Ma said. "You'll be the person who ensured it couldn't happen to anyone else. There's a difference."
I settled into the chair beside Ma, close enough to touch Miles without crowding the family dynamics. He reached out with his free hand, fingers interlacing with mine.
"Tell me what she did," I said quietly. "Not for evidence or investigation. For me. So I understand what you fought through."
Miles was quiet for a moment, organizing his memories. "She used grounding techniques to increase my vulnerability instead of providing stability."
"She turned your own tools against you."
"Worse. She turned my professional identity against itself." Miles held my hand firmly. "Convinced me that traditional therapy was designed to keep people sick instead of helping them heal. That my inadequate methods had harmed every client I'd tried to help."
Ma's grip tightened on his other hand. "That's not true."
"I know that now. But under the influence of drugs, with sophisticated psychological pressure..." Miles shook his head. "She almost made me believe it. Made me doubt everything about my training and my ability to help people.
"What brought you back?" Marcus asked.
Miles's gaze went distant for a moment, but his voice steadied. "A memory. Not a client. Earlier than that. Dad's funeral. I was twelve, standing in Sacred Heart while Father McKenzie spoke, and Ma squeezed my hand so tight I still remember the marks. I asked her why people have to hurt so much."
