Page 25 of Erik's Salvation
Fuck. Again, he was reminded just how young she was.
His cock didn’t care. It hardened at the damn sight of her.
“The pants didn’t fit,” she said softly, moving further into the room. “But the sweatshirt’s like a dress, so…”
He tried to clear his throat, but it felt fucking impossible. Hell, even moving felt like too damn much, unless it was moving toward her.
She cleared her throat, her gaze shifting to the table, brows rising. “You made food.”
Finally, he forced his voice to work. “I had some leftover soup, so I heated it up.”
“That was thoughtful. Thank you.” She lowered her head and sniffed the bowl. “It smells amazing. What is it?”
“Chicken tortilla.”
“I should lock myself out more often.” Her lips spread into a smile, causing his heart to thump. “I’ll just take my insulin.”
She grabbed her bag and pulled out a small pouch before sitting at the table. First, she pricked her finger, then placed the drop of blood onto the test strip. She waited for the number, and once it came up, she took out an insulin pen, attached the needle, and dialed in the amount of insulin.
His muscles tightened when she lifted the sweatshirt to reveal more of her creamy thigh. Her brows pulled together as she gave herself the shot.
She looked up at him. “You’d think after sixteen years, I’d be used to stabbing myself. I don’t suppose you have a sharps container? Or an empty plastic bottle I can use as a makeshift container? And maybe some tape and a Sharpie?”
He disappeared into the hall, almost grateful for the moment away from her to breathe, and returned a minute later with an empty detergent bottle, tape, and a Sharpie.
“Thanks.” She set the pen in the detergent bottle, then taped it up and marked it.
“Can it go in the trash now?”
She shook her head. “It needs to be set beside the garbage can. There’s a special way it has to be broken down.” She rose and set it to the side of the room.
He waited until they were at the table to ask, “You do that at every meal?”
“Yep. Unfortunately, I have to act as my own functioning human pancreas or I die.”
He was sure she’d been trying to inject some humor, but he didn’t so much as smile. “I’m sorry.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I was diagnosed at seven, so I’ve had a long time to come to terms with having an incurable autoimmune disease.”
Still…it would be a lot some days. “Aren’t there machines that can monitor your levels and give you insulin now?”
Her slight smile slipped, and he almost wanted to pull his words back. “There are. Continuous glucose monitors and insulin pumps. But they’re expensive and the insurance I have at Reuben’s Real Estate wouldn’t cover enough for me to be able to afford the difference. Not right now, anyway.” She lifted a shoulder. “My endocrinologist always pushes me to get one, regardless of whether I can afford it or not. But I’ve never had one before, so I don’t really know what I’m missing, do I?”
Her words said one thing, but her tone another. She was upset she couldn’t afford one. And, fuck, Erik was pissed as hell that machines that would make health easier to maintain weren’t accessible to her. They should be accessible for everyone.
“It must have taken a lot of money to fix the house next door.”
Her eyes lit. “Actually, it wasn’t too bad. The property came up, and Henry said he’d help me fix it. It took over a year, and now I pay less than when I was renting.”
“He sounds like a good friend.”
She laughed and the sound punctured his chest. “I owe that man beers for the rest of my life. He’s the only reason I own my own home right now.”
She lowered her head and breathed in the soup for a second time. Then she groaned, and he ground his teeth so hard he damn near broke one of them.
“My God. I wasn’t lying when I said this smells amazing. Did you make it?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Like I said, it’s just chicken tortilla soup. Nothing fancy.”
