Chapter 34 Nina
Nina
The world comes back in soft pieces. Wyatt’s voice, low and steady. The hum of the engine. My seatbelt across my chest, holding me in place.
“You with me?” he asks.
I turn my head toward him, movements slow and disconnected. “Mmhmm.”
“How you feeling?”
“Floaty.” The word comes out stretched, like taffy. “Really floaty.”
His mouth curves. “That’s the good drugs.”
“They are very good drugs.” I watch the palm trees slide past the window, their fronds blurring into green streaks. “Did you know palm trees are waving at us?”
“I did not know that.”
“They are. Very politely.” I lean my head against the window, cool glass against my forehead. “Like a parade.”
“You’re adorable when you’re high.”
“I’m adorable all the time.”
He laughs, warm and genuine. “Fair point.”
The car turns, smooth and easy. I close my eyes, let the motion rock me. Everything feels muffled, distant. Pain exists somewhere far away, held back by whatever they pumped into my IV.
“Chris had to go,” I say, remembering suddenly. “The arraignment.”
“Yeah. He’ll be back soon.”
I reach over, pat his arm. Miss the first time, connect the second. “You’re good at being a person.”
He smiles. “Thanks, Nina.”
“Chris is too. He just doesn’t know it yet.
” My stomach growls audibly and I press a hand to it.
“I’m starving. Can you make me a grilled cheese when we get home?
” A yawn cracks my jaw. “Chris used to make me and Callie grilled cheese after school. He’d already be in the kitchen when we got home.
” I smile at the ceiling. “Best grilled cheeses in the world.”
Wyatt doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I think we can manage that.”
I nod, satisfied. Let my eyes drift closed again. The darkness is warm, welcoming. I could sleep for days.
The car slows, turns. Stops. The engine cuts off, leaving only the tick of cooling metal.
“We’re home,” Wyatt murmurs. “Let’s get you inside.”
He opens my door, helps me stand. My legs work but everything moves underwater-slow, like I’m wading through something thick. His arm around my waist grounds me, keeps me upright.
“Stairs,” he warns.
I focus. Left foot. Right foot. Left again. The front step with the floral doormat materializes under me. Then the door, opening into the sunny foyer.
“Lucia’s watching from inside,” he murmurs. “Darius is doing a perimeter sweep.”
“Always watching.”
“Always.”
He guides me down the hall to my bedroom. The bed looks impossibly far away, then impossibly close. I sit, steadying myself with one hand on the mattress. Wyatt crouches in front of me, slips off my shoes.
“Arms up.”
I raise them obediently. He pulls the oversized sweater over my head, then the soft bra beneath. I’m naked from the waist up, exposed and vulnerable, but Wyatt’s face stays carefully neutral. Professional, almost. Like he’s a nurse completing a task.
“This is very unsexy undressing,” I inform him.
“That’s the goal.”
He reaches for the shirt draped over my footboard—oversized, soft cotton, nothing that will press against the incisions. I put my arms through the sleeves and he pulls it gently over my head. When he tugs it past my breasts, my gaze catches on my lower abdomen.
Three small bandages. Neat white squares against my skin, marking where they went in.
Where they made sure I’ll never have to be terrified again.
Emotion rises swift and unexpected, tightening my throat. My eyes burn.
“Hey.” Wyatt pauses, my pajama bottoms in hand. “You okay?”
I nod, but a tear escapes anyway, tracking down my cheek. It’s over.
He sets the pajamas aside, grabs a tissue from the box on my nightstand. Hands it to me, then sits on the bed beside me, patient.
“I’m not hurting,” I manage. “I’m not sad. I’m just—” Another tear follows the first. I exhale and it almost turns into a sob.
“Hey. It’s okay. Breathe.” He pulls me against his side and I lean into him. Tears tracking down my face.
“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” His voice drops. He touches my chin, urging me to look at him.
I meet his gaze. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just so relieved, Wyatt. It’s like a curse has been lifted. Like I’m finally free.”
His hand finds mine, warm and steady. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I wipe my eyes, looking at those three small bandages again. “I didn’t realize how much weight I was carrying. How afraid I’ve been my whole adult life. And now—” I press the tissue to my face. “Now I don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
Wyatt squeezes my hand. He doesn’t say anything. Just sits with me while I cry quiet tears.
When the emotion passes, he helps me into the pajamas, gentle with the fabric around the bandages. Then he guides me into bed and covers me with the duvet.
“Water’s here.” He sets a glass on the nightstand. “Pain meds when you need them.” He plugs in the heating pad, positions it near my hip. “And heat if the cramping gets bad. Text if you need anything.”
“Where’re you going?”
“Just to the living room. Lucia and Darius will be next door, monitoring security remotely. I’ll see if Chris can pick up grilled cheese ingredients for you.”
“Kay.” I’m already sinking, the bed swallowing me whole. “Wyatt?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for staying.”
His hand touches my hair, light. “Always.”
I want to say more. Want to tell him I love him, that I’m glad he’s here, that having him close makes everything less scary. But sleep drags me under before the words can form.
Soft pressure on my hip pulls me toward consciousness. A warm weight settling beside me. A familiar scent washes over me—different from Wyatt’s, sharper, with undertones of gun oil.
I surface slowly, blinking into dim lamplight.
“Hey.” Chris’s voice is low. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“S’okay.” My voice comes out rough. “What time is it?”
“Almost six. You’ve been out for three hours.”
That explains why my mouth tastes like something died in it. I start to sit up, and Chris helps, rearranging pillows behind me.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“Less floaty. More achy.”
“Due for more meds in thirty minutes.” He reaches for the water glass, hands it to me. “Small sips.”
I drink gratefully, washing away the cotton-mouth. When I lower the glass, I notice the carrier on the floor beside my bed. The one containing a disgruntled calico who’s currently giving me her best offended royalty look. I smile and look up at Chris.
“You brought Nikita.”
“Wyatt thought you might want the company.” Chris opens the carrier door.
“Fair warning, she’s pissed about the car ride.
She got me good when I was packing her up to bring her here.
” He holds up one hand and I wince at the bright red pair of scratches that extend up the side of his palm from wrist to knuckles.
Nikita emerges with extreme dignity, tail swishing. She surveys my bedroom with the air of a health inspector finding multiple violations, then—to my delight—leaps onto the bed and headbutts my hand.
“Hello, gorgeous girl,” I murmur, scratching behind her ears. She circles once, twice, then curls into the space between my hip and the mattress edge, purring loud enough to rattle windows.
“She’s decided you’re acceptable,” Chris observes.
“High praise.”
“The highest.” He watches me for a moment, something careful in his expression. “You doing okay? Really?”
“Really. Just sore.”
“The procedure went well. No complications.” He pauses. “You don’t have to worry about it anymore.”
The way he says it—quiet, certain—tells me he’s not talking about the surgery. He’s talking about all of it. Every panic attack, every month of dread, the weight I’ve been carrying since I was old enough to understand what my body could do to me.
I swallow hard. “No. I don’t.”
He holds my gaze for a beat, then nods once.
“How was the arraignment?”
“Quick. We got what we wanted.” His jaw tightens slightly. “She’s playing her part.”
There’s more there. More he’s not saying. But he looks exhausted, and I’m too fuzzy-headed to push.
“You hungry?” he asks, changing the subject. “Wyatt and I were about to make dinner.”
“Maybe? I’m not sure yet.”
“I’ll bring you something anyway. You should eat.”
He stands, starts to leave, then pauses. Comes back. Leans down and kisses my forehead, lingering.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he says against my skin.
“Me too.”
He straightens, then disappears into the hallway. Nikita opens one eye, confirms he’s gone, and goes back to purring.
I sink into the pillows, one hand on her warm fur, and let my eyes drift closed. Just for a minute.
The smell wakes me. Something savory and complex with an undercurrent of pure comfort, making my stomach wake up and take notice.
Nikita’s gone from beside me, probably investigating the kitchen situation. I push myself upright more carefully this time, testing my body’s response. Sore across my lower abdomen, like bad period cramps. But manageable.
I make my way to the bathroom, handle necessary business, then follow my nose toward the kitchen.
Chris and Wyatt stand at the stove, moving around each other with surprising coordination. Wyatt’s wiping up while Chris tends a frying pan. Their voices are low enough that I can’t make out words from the hallway.
Nikita sits on the counter—a place she’s absolutely not supposed to be—supervising.
“If you’re going to allow the cat on food prep surfaces,” I announce, “at least pretend you have standards.”
Both men turn. Wyatt grins. Chris has the grace to look slightly guilty.
“She’s very insistent,” Chris says.
“She’s a cat. You’re supposed to be the one with opposable thumbs and boundary-setting abilities.”
“She makes a compelling case.” He tilts his head toward the counter. “Sit. You should be in bed.”
“I got bored of bed.” I climb onto one of the bar stools at the counter.
Chris turns from the frying pan, slides a plate in front of me. A grilled cheese, cut diagonally, golden-brown.
I stare at it. Look up at him. He’s already turned back to the stove.
“Wyatt said you were craving one,” he says, like it’s nothing.