Page 11 of My Dark Fairy Tale
But as it turned out, I was a liar.
The doctor’s exam passed in a hazy, exhausted blur. He confirmed I had a mild concussion, bruised ribs, and the beginnings of a bad illness that made my throat feel tight and swollen. He recommended sleep, fluids, over-the-counter pain meds, and bed rest until I could stand without feeling dizzy and pained. When I told him about my condition, he clucked his tongue at me and declared he’d be back to check on me the next day in case I needed to be hooked up to an IV to replace my fluids and replenish my vitamin B.
Raffa stood over his shoulder the entire exam after I gave him permission to stay, his arms crossed and brow furrowed in a way I was beginning to think was his trademark stance and position. He watched the doctor with hawkish focus, as if afraid I’d be triggered by the man’s clinical hands on my body after what happened last night.
It was strangely sweet from a man who seemed determined to refute any softness or kindness in himself.
After the exam, I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until it was dark again. I attempted to move, needing the restroom, but my entire body had seized up, encased in cement that refused to budge without considerable effort. I whimpered as I shifted one leg to the edge of the bed and began dragging the other over the mattress.
When both feet were dangling above the floor, I tried to twist and raise my torso into a seated position. Sharp blades of pain slid between each of the ribs on my left side, and a cry of pain escaped my lips before I could curb the urge.
Seconds later there was a knock on my bedroom door, which immediately opened to reveal Raffa in low-slung black pajama pants and an open black robe. Without hesitation, he strode across the room and to my side, winding an arm around my waist gently to lift me out of bed and to my feet. He held me while I swayed, searching for my equilibrium.
“Costante,” he murmured, curling me closer into the bracket of his strong arm and warm side.
I noticed vaguely that he smelled like oakmoss, smoky and earthen. An aroma that made me want to lean closer, cuddle up, and inhale that warmth until the fuzzy, awful haze in my brain faded clean away.
“Bathroom,” I tried to say through the swollen, hot confines of my throat, but the word emerged as only a mangled whisper.
Without hesitation, he started to lead me toward the door, but two steps in, a small cry left my lips because my side screamed in protest. Raffa made a displeased noise and very carefully bent to gather my legs over one arm and prop my back delicately against the other so as not to jostle my ribs. I pressed my stuffed nose into the short hair on his hard chest and squeezed my eyes against the tears that sprang up behind them.
The simple kindness was too much to handle after the sheer terribleness of my first day in the country.
“Sorry,” I croaked.
“Stai zitta.”
That I knew well.
Shut up.
My father still muttered it under his breath sometimes when one of us was being particularly obstinate.
I obeyed, but only because I needed to save my energy for when he put me down in the bathroom. The hallway outside my bedroom was narrow, dotted every couple meters with chandeliers that glittered dimly on a low setting. When we reached the bathroom door, Raffa gently lowered me to my feet, hands on my forearms as I steadied myself. I tried to look up at him, but the effort made my head ache sharply, and I could barely open my eyes to see him anyway.
“Call if you need me,” he demanded.
I shuffled around without saying anything because I’d be damned if I asked this gorgeous stranger to help me in the bathroom. As it was, it took me way too long after closing the door on him to lower myself to the toilet and do my business. I thought briefly about checking myself out in the mirror, but I knew turning on the light would only hurt my eyes. By the time I reached the doorway again, I had to lean my entire body against the door for a moment of reprieve.
For one clear, brutal second, I wanted to cry.
I wanted teleportation to exist so I could wish myself back to Michigan with one click of ruby-red slippers.
My mom would coo over me and make sure I was fed, watered, and cuddled to within an inch of my life, while my dad would go all over town to get my favorite treats to brighten my day. I was twenty-three years old, but I felt so young, so unprepared to be sick, alone, and without money or ID in a foreign country, at the mercy of a man who’d hit me with his freaking car.
Gemma had been the one to call me Jinx for the first time when I fell through a rotted board in a friend’s treehouse as a girl and broke my arm. My parents had joined in soon after when it became apparent that karma had a grudge against me.
I’d felt lucky recently, though, that I was not the one who’d died in my twenties like my sister.
Now I wasn’t sure if being lucky or unlucky really mattered.
The truth seemed to be this: As soon as you were comfortable, life found a way to kick you straight in the teeth.
“Guinevere?” Raffa’s voice filtered through the door. “Do you need help?”
I sucked in a breath and pushed off the door so I could open it. He stood to the side, arms crossed, naked torso framed by that black robe.
“I wish I felt better to admire you properly,” I admitted as I braced myself against the doorframe.
