Page 40 of Vallaverse: Twist
I shake my head. I've never even considered therapy. What would I tell a therapist? That I'm a junkie? An addict? That I'm a slut? That I whore myself out for my next fix or for fear of being uncomfortable? Those things might be true, but I can't say them in a professional setting. That's bad enough, but what if... Oh God. “With you?”
“Do you want me to stay with you? I booked you with my therapist because I know you'll be safe there, but I hadn't planned on staying with you during the appointment. If you want me to stay, I will. Just say the word. Anything you need.”
I need to go back to bed. The mere concept of Brooks sitting next to me while I spill my rotten soul fills me with pure horror. I'd never survive it. “I don't think that would be a good idea.”
He's curious; I can see it all over his face, but he doesn't push the topic. Instead, he moves to the next uncomfortable subject.
“You have another appointment with the doctor this afternoon. This one will be the last for a few weeks unless you need to be seen before then, right?”
I slump against the back of my chair. I am sick of appointments. I haven't seen a doctor this much since I was a child. I'm happy to be finished with them. I know they mean well, but they're so intrusive. I just want the doctor to sign off on my general health so I can try to get back into a normal routine. I miss routine. Even the awful, toxic one I had with Kris was still a routine. Regular, everyday routines don't include multiple medical appointments every week.
“Yeah,” I confirm, picking up my fork to stab at my cold eggs again. “He says I've made good progress.”
Brooks nods. “I'm proud of you.”
“Don't be.”
His mouth thins into a small, tight line. “Don't dismiss the work you've put into yourself, Laz.”
I don't have a response to that that he'll accept, so I just nod and keep pushing my eggs around the plate.
The appointment with the doctor is awkward at best. I want to talk about my reproductive health and the permanent damage I may have caused, but he insists on focusing on my physical well-being.
The blunt, raw truth of the matter is that I miss sex. I miss the release, both physical and mental. I'm an Omega—a spoiled Omega, situation be damned. I need attention. I need affection. I crave it, and I'm beginning to feel the lack of it.
Brooks touches me in a very general way. A shoulder squeeze here, a pat on the back there, the occasional stroke of the hair. It isn't enough. If I'm going to be his Omega, then he needs to treat me that way, which is exactly what I told the doctor.
“Isn't that what he's doing?” he counters. “He's making sure his Omega is in very good health after a very stressful and demanding ordeal. Did you expect him to bring you home and have his way with you on the very first night? You were basically dead, Mr. Williams. Be a little patient. Do you think this intense need for physical affection is part of your recovery process?”
“I think Omegas need physical affection.”
He nods. “I agree. But you can have physical affection without turning it into intercourse. Can't you?”
Maybe. I don't know. It's been a long time since I tried. I was even standoffish with Kris for the past couple of years. “Maybe.”
“That's going to have to be good enough for now because I'm not signing off on sex until we get your hormones level. We'll draw a sample today and another in a week or so. By then you'll have met with the reproductive specialists.”
“Reproductive specialists?” I repeat, dumbfounded. No, shocked. “Why do I need to see reproductive specialists?”
“When was your last natural heat?”
I snap my mouth shut.
“That's what I thought. We need to get you to a point of stability. Be patient with yourself.”
He leaves me sitting on my bed agonizing over how patient I'm not.
Mrs. Richards comes in a little while after the doctor leaves. I really like her, even though she's mean about lying in bed too much.
“Alright, Mr. Williams,” she says firmly, hands on hips. “I'm going to the market, and I need a strong escort who doesn't mind carrying the basket. Put your shoes on and grab a sweater and meet me by the door in five minutes.”
This is part of my recovery regimen. I don't think anyone asked her to take me for walks every day, and I know for a fact it isn't Brooks's idea for her to drag me out to the shops, but none of us have the nerve to disobey her. I get my shoes and the sweater that I won't need and meet her at the door.
She's already there with her handbasket and bright yellow jacket. “We'll walk through the park today. The weather's too nice to find fault with.”
I gave up trying to reason with her. She's led me through parks, playgrounds, fountain paths, and open-air markets. I just go where she takes me. Sometimes she talks about the places we meander through, and I try to pay attention, but what happens more often than not is I get lost in my own head.
She drives us into the residential area of the city and parks the car in front of a meter. After she pays the fee, she shoves the basket onto one of my arms and loops her hand through the other one. “Off we go.”
