Page 90 of Borrowed Pain
"You didn't sleep." Stating the obvious was easier than asking how he felt about watching a man die.
His shoulders twitched—barely a shrug. "Kept seeing his face." The words came out raw. "How he looked as the poison took hold. Like he was already gone, but his body hadn't figured it out yet."
I poured fresh coffee into a clean mug. "Rook made his choice," I said gently, settling onto the stool beside him.
"Did he? Or did we back him into a corner where death was the only option that made sense?"
Survivor's guilt weighed heavily on his shoulders. "Drink this fresh coffee." I nudged the new mug toward him. "Let your body remember it's still alive."
I returned to the coffee maker to fill my own mug. "I have a consultation this afternoon."
Rowan's threat radar activated despite the fog of grief. "What kind of consultation?"
My rehearsed answer tumbled out. "Research collaboration. Someone who might have insights about therapeutic approaches."
"With who?"
He wouldn't let me hide.
"A trauma researcher. Dr. Celeste Harrow." I watched his face for recognition.
His brow furrowed. "Is that safe?"
"I need to know whether her techniques might actually help trauma survivors instead of just managing symptoms."
Rowan set his mug down. "Miles, last night I held a dying witness while he choked on his own blood. Today you want to meet with someone who might be behind it all."
"But what if she's legitimate?" Defensive agitation drove my questions. "What if her protocols could have saved Iris, could save Mrs. Kim, and could prevent what happened to Patricia's son?"
"What if it's a trap designed to eliminate the troublesome therapist asking inconvenient questions?"
His logic was sound, but it crashed against the growing conviction that traditional therapy was failing my clients at catastrophic rates.
"I'll be careful," I said.
Rowan laughed, sharp and humorless. "Careful. Right." He stood abruptly, stool scraping against Matthew's floor. "Careful worked so well for Rook."
He walked to the tall windows overlooking the canal, shoulders tense. Morning mist clung to the industrial landscape beyond.
"I can't lose anyone else, Miles." His voice was barely audible. "I can't watch another person I care about disappear because Iwasn't smart enough, fast enough, or paranoid enough to keep them safe."
I stepped up behind him, not quite touching, close enough to feel his body heat through his rumpled shirt.
"You won't lose me."
"You don't know that." He turned to face me with naked fear in his eyes. "None of us knows that."
I touched his cheek with my fingertips. "Two hours. Harborview Medical Center, full institutional oversight. I'll have my phone, check-in protocols with Dorian, and enough paranoia to make Marcus proud."
Rowan searched my face, looking for cracks in my resolve. He found none because I'd practiced hiding them.
"Text me every thirty minutes," he said finally. "Miss one check-in and I'm coming after you with your entire extended family and their weapons."
"Deal."
He kissed me then, desperate and clinging, like he was trying to memorize the taste of my mouth.
"I love you," he whispered. "Don't make me have to live with that being past tense."
