Page 50 of Blind Devotion
“People insult what they don’t understand. It’s human nature. I’ve learned it’s a compulsion that few are able to escape.”
“You sound as if you have experience.”
“I’m not blind, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Don’t be facetious. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” I didn’t push further for information. He obviously didn’t want to talk about it. “Are there seats for us?”
He directed us a few steps to the left, his arm still around me, a constant reassuring pressure. The back of my calves tapped against the chair seat, but his arm cinched tighter around my abdomen, not letting me sit. I tilted my head up. His breath feathered against my face. We stood like that, clinging to each other, ignoring the rest of the world.
“I don’t like to be touched,” he finally said softly.
“But…” I frowned. He never said anything the dozens of times I laid a hand on him, or when he kissed my forehead, or when he held my hand earlier. Did I make him uncomfortable?
“I learned to hide that.”
“Why?”
“Because while a child enduring a traumatic experience is understandable, people tend to put a time limit on its acceptability.” Fingers swept hair out of my face, brushing a momentary caress along my skin. “Words can be as sharp as a knife, as precise as a sniper rifle, as destructive as a bomb. And they are all the more cruel when you leave yourself vulnerable to attack.”
“I didn’t.” My indignation burned. I defended myself and put those nosy shrews in their place. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I was that boy once. For months after, people were lenient to my new…eccentricities. Then that wavered. They’d had enough. It took me years to build the character I needed to protect myself from their censure. Even now, most physical contact invokes a need in me for violence. Seventeen years later, you’re one of the few people whose touch doesn’t cause me pain.”
I searched for the right words to respond to that admission. His finger pressed to my lips.
“Don’t. I don’t need pity.”
“Why do you think I’d pity you? You obviously grew up strong despite adversity. You should be proud of yourself.”
That finger dragged down my bottom lip to my chin, his thumb coming up to cup the angle of my jaw.
“You’ve been blind for a month, conscious of it for barely a week, and yet not once have you let it hinder you. I admire that. I admire you. Yours is a light not worth dimming in the slightest.” His lips grazed mine before pulling back. It was barely a peck, but I wanted more. So much more. “Wait here.”
I let him help me into a seat, too shocked by his words and almost-kiss to resist. My jaw hung slightly open. So much noise. So many people. Wide-open spaces I didn’t know, and yet I didn’t feel an ounce of panic. Deadly, strong, and fierce Adrien admired me. He held me. He stood up forme. He shared details of his life with me. I might not have known him for long, but I doubted he did that with just anyone. It was enough to give any warm-blooded woman a heady rush.
A beep sounded overhead.
“That’s your number,” Adrien said, helping me up and out of my seat. “Come on.”
Chapter 18
Ihatedhospitalsandclinics. They were the places where compassion went to die. I was desensitized to killing, but many who worked here were desensitized to health problems—mental or otherwise. They saw so much of it in these places, so frequently, none of it swayed them anymore. A patient was just another face, another statistic, another bill to invoice.
These sorts were the first people who lost patience with an eight-year-old child admitted for lacerations and burns down his arms, hands, and back, a child who screamed and lashed out whenever someone neared. I needed an IV, so they held me down in numbers as I thrashed. Every bandage dressing change was an event, but the boy I’d learned to be refused to be quiet and accept what others wanted just because they wanted it. I’d had enough of that during my month in captivity when they pitted Yannick and me against each other.
The doctors and nurses thought I needed comfort, so they stopped by my room frequently to check on me. They smiled and cajoled and attempted to reason with me. They spoke to me as if they knew me and talked about how fortunate I was. Theytouched me freely, acting as if I were the irrational one when I got aggressive. They treated me like an eight-year-old when I shed that skin the moment Yannick and I were captured because of my hesitation and youth.
At first, when none of that worked, they doubled down, but soon came the comments to my parents, the snarky attitude, the eye rolls, the rough and abrupt treatment. Not once did they or my parents allow me to visit my brother—I was too much of a risk to him, they decided—and yet Yannick blamed me for that abandonment until he died. To top it off, they looked down on Erel—the boy who’d defied his abusive parent to free Yannick and me—because of his threadbare clothing and shabby hair.
No matter how ill I was, no matter how extensive my injuries, I only once came back to a hospital or clinic after that, five years ago. Untilma petite rescapéecame along. I was breaking all my rules for her. I came to her bedside after her surgeries, compelled to be there. Here I was again, within these cold, white, sterile walls and tiles, for her.
She needed someone with her, and compulsion forced my hand. Ithadto be me.
Not Alizé—she’d corrupt Tessa. Not Erel—he’d sooner garrote her. Not Thibault—he’d lose her in the first crowd. Not Michel, my chief of security, or anyone else—because fuck that, no man but me was going to place a hand on her.
I paced the halls like a mad fool waiting for her to be called back by the ophthalmologist. A woman’s voice called out a number. Not ours. We had left the radiology center within minutes after she returned from her scan to drive a quarter of an hour to the next town over to arrive here, one of the last places I wanted to be. Any minute now.
“Never ever never did I think you, of all people, could be such a nervous wreck,” Tessa said with amusement from her seat.
