Page 74 of Hostile Bond
“Not yet.” I shrug, feigning confidence, when really, I’m a wreck underneath this ugly knitted pullover and mismatched flouncy skirt that ends at my knees.
The fact I’m wearing a skirt like this adds to how completely disassociated I am with myself since waking up in the hospital. Everything has irrevocably changed.
Both of his big hands line my jaw, enabling him to tilt my head back so his lips settle before mine. Our gazes fuse—wicked black to turquoise.
The doctor fades into the pale green room decorated with potted plants, chalky figurines, and an unlit fireplace.
My fingers tremble, all the emotions inside of me hammering through my body and hitting the herringbone flooring underfoot. Fluttery silken lips brush across my mouth and, in a heartbeat, they switch to firm and possessive.
André’s kiss stings of ownership, giving the impression he’s not happy about the handsome doctor who’s sporting a stethoscope around his neck and has his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows.
He gently sucks my tongue into his mouth and lets it slip out before looking beyond me.
“I’ve asked for my wife’s medical records to be made available.” When the possessiveness of his hands falls from my face, I shiver from the loss of his warmth, feeling unsettled without it. He ushers me to a tan leather chesterfield. “She’s suffered both a physical and mental trauma in the past twenty-four hours. Your job is to assess her wound; however, I’ll be right here, having a drink––watching where your hands land.”
The doctor crosses his arms when André stalks to the gold liquor trolley. “I can assure you, sir, my hands will only land on Mrs. Souza if she permits it.”
“She doesn’t.” André bites out, popping a crystal decanter stopper and pouring a matching tumbler almost full to the brim. “Eyes are for assessing. Hands are for inappropriate touching.”
“This is ridiculous.” In a huff, I lift the jumper, not caring that half of my braless breast is visible.
All I want is a warm bed, a cup of tea, and a plate of Mammy’s homemade chocolate chip cookies. Instead, I have this Hennessy pantomime to survive and a husband who’s become acutely overprotective.
“The nurse covered it with a dressing to protect it from the harness during our flight.”
I hear André’s sharp intake of air, unsure if it's due to the gauzy padding or the fact the doctor’s lowered to his haunches, his eyes on my bare flesh.
“I need to see it. Are you happy with me removing the dressing?”
“Go for it.” I brace, squeezing my eyes shut as he picks at the tape and peels the gauze off.
He’s gentle as he works. “I often find the dissolvable stitches can be reluctant to fall out, and some can take months. You may need a few removed by hand in a week or two.” I flinch when the latex gloved fingers pat the swollen area. “The surgeon did a good job. Presumably, you were given an antibiotic?” I nod. “Great. I’d leave the dressing off to let it heal.” He stands and pings the latex tight to his wrist as he removes it. “Do you feel okay aside from having a gunshot wound?”
“Yes.” I lie, nibbling the inside of my mouth. “Other than being dog-tired.”
Shit scared.
Heartbroken.
Cooper rolls up the inside out gloves. “That's a normal reaction to trauma. My recommendation would be to get as much rest as possible. Listen to your body and drink lots of water. I’ll call in again next week to see if you need any of those stitches pulled out. If you’d like a personally tailored IV cocktail of nutrients, I can arrange that for you.”
“I don’t plan on hanging around for that long.” I look over at André, who’s knocking back the last of his liquor. “But thanks anyway.”
When the doctor moves sideways to gather his things, André’s brows snap together. His blistering gaze all over the patchwork pattern on my flesh, that’s raw and tinged with a yellow-brown antiseptic stain post-surgery.
“Christ…” he mutters, and then out of the blue tosses his empty glass into the fireplace.
The force of his temper smashes the glass into tiny fragments. Cooper spins around and glares at him—partly furious, mostly apprehensive. I find my husband's furrowed brow and witness a flash of devastation behind his eyes.
The muscles in his jaw work in tandem with clenching fists. The kiss of shadows from the dying sun deepens the hollow of his corded throat. Every visible tattoo darkens in color when he swipes a hand over the coarse hairs on his jaw.
“André?” I say his name softly and lower the jumper.
“I’m sorry.” His tone rasps with gravelly annunciation, before he rakes his fingers through his hair, twists his neck from side to side, and fixes his posture like the authoritarian boss of a cartel kingdom. “I don’t like seeing you suffer.”
He’s suffering too. Underneath his t-shirt there’s an explosive, raw wound just like mine, where larger and less stitches hold torn flesh together. We’re both victims.
I blink, forcing myself to stay strong. “It’s okay, Dré. We should go meet your grandfather now.”
