Chapter Fifteen #2
“He didn’t have to, baby sister,” he sighs. “That man is so in love with you he can’t breathe knowing you hate him.”
“I don’t hate him,” I say, glaring at him through watery eyes. “I was hurt. I waited for years for him to want me back. I waited so long that I stopped living for me and started living in whatever way I thought he might like. The way that might grab his attention.”
Spike’s expression softens.
“Oh, silly sister,” he murmurs. “You had that man’s attention the first day he saw you. He was just too stubborn to admit he deserved something as beautiful and pure as you.”
“Not pure anymore,” I mutter.
Spike’s hand stills in my hair.
Even though I still can’t remember anything else about that night beyond the same dream that replays over and over… it doesn’t change how I feel.
I don’t remember it.
I don’t remember what it felt like when he cut me.
I don’t remember what it felt like when he took my innocence. The thing I had guarded and saved and dreamed about giving to Tank one day.
My mind doesn’t remember it.
But my body does.
My body remembers fear.
My body remembers pain.
My body remembers something being stolen.
Spike’s jaw tightens.
“Abby,” he says, low and firm. “Don’t you dare.”
I blink at him.
“Don’t you dare let that man take something from you twice,” he continues. “He hurt you once. He doesn’t get to sit in your head and convince you that you’re less because of it.”
“It was mine,” I whisper. “It was supposed to be mine to give.”
“And it still is,” he snaps, knowing what I’m talking about.
I stare at him.
“You think what he did changed who you are?” Spike’s voice is rough now, anger barely leashed. “You think some sick piece of garbage gets to define your worth? Your purity? Your value?”
I swallow.
He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
“You didn’t give anything away that night,” he says carefully. “Something was taken. Those are not the same thing.”
Tears slip down my temples into my hair.
“What if Tank only sees my attack when we’re together?” I whisper.
Spike actually scoffs.
“That man?” he says incredulously. “Abby, Tank looks at you like you hung the moon and demanded it to shine brighter. If he ever thought you were anything but sacred, I’d put him in the ground myself.”
A small, watery laugh escapes me.
“He doesn’t care about what happened,” Spike continues. “He cares that you were hurt. He cares that he wasn’t there. He cares that he didn’t protect you.”
I close my eyes.
“I don’t feel pure anymore,” I admit. “Even if I don’t remember it… I know it happened. And sometimes my body reacts before my brain does. I flinch. I freeze. I… feel wrong.”
Spike’s thumb brushes under my eye, catching a tear.
“Your body surviving trauma doesn’t make you wrong,” he says quietly. “It makes you alive.”
“I know you’re right,” I whisper. “And most days, I agree with you. I guess I’m just extra emotional today.”
“That’s okay, baby sister,” he says with a small smile. “I’ll be here on those emotional days to remind you how amazing you are. And you know what else?”
“What?” I murmur.
“Tank will be too.”
I can’t help it. I smile.
“Speaking of,” he continues, eyeing me carefully, “how much longer are you going to make him suffer for being an idiot for so long?”
I stare at the ceiling for a moment, gathering my thoughts through the fog in my head.
“I think he’s suffered enough,” I admit quietly. “I’m tired of pretending I’m perfectly happy without him. I even tried, Bubby. I tried to move on. To build something else. But it always circles back to him. It always comes back to Tank. I love him so much.”
“I know, sweetheart,” he says softly.
“We’ve already talked about how I feel about… what happened,” I continue. “He pretty much said everything you did. I just…” I swallow. “I just hope it didn’t change something in me. When it comes to… the intimate things. I don’t know if my heart will react the same. Or my body.”
Spike immediately groans.
“I do not want to hear about you and Tank’s intimate anything,” he grumbles. “No matter how much I approve of that idiot, he’s still not good enough for you. No one is.”
Despite myself, I laugh weakly.
“But,” he adds, his tone turning serious again, “he is the one I trust the most with your heart. And your safety.”
He leans down and presses his forehead to mine.
“You are still you,” he whispers. “Nothing that monster did changed that.”
Heavy bootsteps make their way across the room and stop somewhere close behind me.
Neither of us looks immediately.
But I know.
I feel him.
Tank doesn’t speak right away. He must have heard at least part of it. Maybe all of it.
Spike straightens slowly and steps back.
“She’s all yours,” my brother says quietly, his voice carrying a warning and a blessing all at once.
Then he walks past Tank and out the door.
Silence settles.
I finally open my eyes.
Tank is standing just inside the room in a clean T-shirt and sweats, hair still slightly damp from a quick shower. His jaw is tight. His eyes are darker than usual.
Not angry.
Wounded.
Determined, maybe?
He crosses the room slowly and kneels in front of me, one hand bracing on the couch cushion near my hip.
“Didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he says quietly. “But I’m glad I did.”
My heart stutters.
“You heard?”
“Enough.”
His hand comes up carefully, like he’s approaching something fragile, and cups my cheek.
“What happened to you didn’t change how I see you,” he says. “It didn’t lessen you. It didn’t stain you. And it sure as hell didn’t take anything from me.”
My throat tightens.
We’ve had this conversation before, but I can’t seem to get past it.
“I was saving…”
“I know,” he says gently, stopping me before I can spiral. “And listen to me very carefully, Abigail.”
His forehead rests against mine.
“I’m so thankful for anything you’re willing to give me. Because you’re choosing me. Because you trust me.”
Tears slip down my temples.
“And if your body needs time,” he continues, “we take time. If you flinch, I stop. If you panic, I hold you. If all we ever do is lie in bed and breathe together, I’ll take it. Fuck…I’ll devour every second of it.”
His voice drops lower.
“Until that moment comes,” he whispers. “Let me love you so damn much that your body will forget those horrible memories and replaces it with memories of mine. My hugs. My kisses. My caresses. My…love.”
“I love you,” I whisper, my throat burning with each word.
“My sweet baby,” he whispers back. “I’ve known that for a long time. I’ve loved you just as long. I just didn’t realize it.”
“I did,” I admit. “I always knew you loved me. I just didn’t think you’d ever figure it out.”
“I’m a fucking idiot,” he says. “Now, please, stop talking. I need you to save that voice so you can scald me properly for dumb shit I do in the future.”
I laugh, but my voice is so far gone that it only comes out as a puff of air…which in turn, causes another coughing fit to happen.
Fun.
***
I’m half-buried in blankets on the couch pretending I’m not listening.
I’m absolutely listening.
“She’s got an upper respiratory infection,” Patch says. “Most likely viral. Airways are inflamed. Sinuses are a mess.”
“Dammit,” Tank mutters.
Patch ignores him. “Her lungs are clear. No crackles. No signs of pneumonia. Oxygen’s good.”
“Hospital?” Tank asks immediately.
I roll my eyes but keep them closed.
“No,” Patch continues. “She’s miserable, not dying. Fever’s moderate. Body’s doing what it’s supposed to do.”
Thank you.
Finally, someone sane.
“I’m going to put her on a short steroid taper,” Patch says. “Low dose. Knock down the inflammation so she can breathe without feeling like she’s inhaling through a straw.”
Rude… But accurate.
“I’m also going to give her something for her cough. But here’s the important part,” he adds. “Cough suppressant only at night. She needs sleep.”
Tank grunts his approval.
“But during the day,” Patch continues, “you let her cough.”
“I don’t like that,” Tank says.
Yeah, neither do I.
“It’s not about what you like,” Patch replies evenly. “That junk in her chest needs to come up. If you suppress it too much, it settles. When it settles, we start talking pneumonia. And then you really won’t like it.”
Okay, that I don’t like.
“What about antibiotics?” Tank asks.
“Not yet,” Patch says. “This is almost certainly viral. Antibiotics won’t touch it unless it turns bacterial. If her fever spikes higher, lasts longer than a few days, or her lungs start sounding dirty, I’ll call one in.”
I don’t get to see Patch nearly as much as I’d like. He’s a patched member of the Shadows, but he likes to be on his own. Luckily, he comes to large family events and always comes when someone needs patched up. I don’t know his story, but I do know that he’s an actual doctor.
“Fluids,” Patch continues. “Steam. Humid air. Fever reducers, if she needs them. She’ll probably feel worse before she feels better. Steroids kick in quickly, though. And she’s going to be cranky.”
“I’m not cranky,” I rasp without opening my eyes.
“You are absolutely cranky,” Tank says.
“Steroids will most likely make her even more so,” Patch mutters.
I hear his bag zip closed.
“Give her hot tea with honey to help her throat and make her drink hot broth until she can handle swallowing solid foods,” Patch adds.
“I hate broth,” I croak.
“You’re drinking the broth,” Tank says immediately.
“I’m a grown woman.”
“You’re a sick grown woman.”
“I will fight you.”
“Good,” Tank replies. “I like my women feisty.”
I crack one eye open just enough to glare at him.
He’s standing there, arms crossed, jaw set like he’s about to go to war over soup.
Patch moves toward the door.
“Call me if her breathing changes,” he says. “Otherwise, let her rest. And don’t smother her.”
“I don’t smother,” Tank mutters.
Patch doesn’t bother responding.
The door shuts, and the silence settles.
I open both eyes now.
Tank is still standing there…watching me.
Like I might disappear if he looks away.
“I’m not drinking the broth.”
He steps closer.
“You’re drinking the broth.”
I narrow my eyes.
He narrows his right back.
And even through the fever fog…I kind of love that he’s not backing down.
“You’re going to do as I say if it means getting you better,” he says, arms crossed like he’s laying down club law instead of soup law.
“You have horrible bedside manners for a nurse,” I mumble, closing my eyes so I don’t see whatever expression he’s making and accidentally laugh myself into another coughing fit.
“Not true,” he replies smoothly. “I also have horrible bedside manners when I’m not pretending to be a nurse.”
That does it...I laugh.
Which turns into coughing. Which then turns into me almost passing out from lack of oxygen.
By the time I’m done, I’m lightheaded and blinking at the ceiling
“That’s it,” Tank mutters. “No more talking. Come on. I’m carrying you to bed.”
“I can walk,” I protest weakly.
He doesn’t argue. He just bends down and lifts me up.
My arms slide around his neck without permission from my brain, and I press as close as I can because he’s warm and solid and smells like soap and leather and home.
He chuckles low in his chest.
“My baby likes cuddles,” he murmurs.
I don’t deny it.
A few moments later, I’m laid gently onto my bed. He tucks the blankets around me like I’m something fragile and precious instead of a dramatic mucus monster.
I sigh and close my eyes.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” I whisper, already drifting.
“My baby is sweet when she’s sick,” he replies. “Sassy as hell when she’s not.”
I want to argue that I’m sweet all the time.
But my throat feels like it’s been sandpapered.
“I’ll bring your meds up when the prospect gets back,” he says quietly. “I won’t be far, babygirl. Try and get some sleep.”
As if I have a choice.
My body has officially clocked out.
It’s taking over, shutting everything down, whether I approve or not.
I have a small, humbling taste of what poor Eli deals with when his body decides it’s done for a bit.
The last thing I feel before sleep drags me under is Tank’s hand brushing lightly through my hair.
And for the first time in many months…I let myself dream the dreams I thought were unreachable.