Chapter 11 Doc
DOC
Saint has finally slept in his own damn bed. After the confrontation with Wren, which took every damn bit of my restraint, I knew something would push her to stand up as his woman. It needed done.
Even if all I can think about is how badly I want to touch all that skin she showed off to me.
I shake myself out of that thought.
This is good progress, but his office light is on, and it’s early. When I push open his door, he’s strapping on his holster. I raise my brow at him.
“I’m going out. I want you to take care of Wren while I’m gone.” His voice is flat, tired, exhausted. He spent the night down there, but I doubt he got any sleep. And not for any fun reasons.
I bet she cuddled right up against him, and he refused to move and create too much intimacy. He doesn’t think I see how he avoids it, doesn’t think I know about what happened to his wife and kid and that he thinks he doesn’t deserve to have that again.
But he’s wrong.
I narrow my gaze at him, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He huffs, as if saying what he means is going to rip his heart out. “She’s vulnerable.”
All the more reason for me to stay away from her. It’s already hard not to go right to her when I spot her in a room.
And Saint must read it on my face.
“You’re going to have to give me some firm ground rules.” Because my thoughts are spinning out. Flashes of her skin, those thick thighs, the way her shirts barely hide her…how Saint’s vest covers it all.
I want to devour her, and Saint is dangling bait in front of me.
The tension in him grows, bunching his shoulders and curling his hands into fists like he might throw one at me. “Whatever it takes to make her feel comfortable. Welcome. Keep her from running. Again.”
That’s not exactly what I meant.
“Don’t do anything she doesn’t initiate.”
Oh. That’s clearer. “You’re sure?”
Please, every holy being that might still be listening to me, let him be sure.
“Yes. For now. May as well keep her in her room. Most of us will be gone today anyway.”
My heart beats hard. I want to run to her right now. But I school myself and nod. “You’ve got it, boss.”
Saint barely throws a glance at me over his shoulder before he storms off. Him and a handful of the guys leave.
I’m left in a whirlwind of desires and contradictions. I make myself wait, sinking lower into the chair in Saint’s office. If I move, I’m going to rush right to her.
I clench my hands and release them. Again and again. Until the count of a hundred and sixty-five, then I launch myself out of the chair.
My hand runs through my hair, and I spin back at the door before barreling through it.
More men are clearing out, and I remind myself to breathe. I don’t even care if I get to touch her or not. I just want to be in the same room as her without feeling guilty about it.
Diverting myself in the kitchen, I collect an easy breakfast: eggs, sausage, toast, fruit, coffee…
It’s an easy excuse to cover why I’m going down to Saint’s room. A knock elicits ruffling on the other side, and the image of her sliding out from those sheets zaps through me.
“Coming,” Wren calls softly, like I’ve woken her up. I probably have.
The lock pops, and the door opens to reveal her in Saint’s t-shirt. Her eyes wide as she takes me in and the tray I have for her. “Is that for me?”
“It is.” My voice is more gruff than I intended.
She pulls the door open wider to let me in. “Um, let me just put on some shorts.”
It’s been a couple of days, and she’s still wearing those shorts that are so small, they’re almost underwear on her, but they’re better than nothing. Better than no underwear. Knowing she’s bare underneath there is too tempting otherwise.
My brain needs a kick to start going again, and I follow her inside, closing the door behind me.
Wren meets me back at the bed, curling her legs under her as she peers up at me. “What’s happening?”
Startled by the direct question, I tilt my head to take her in as she bites through a strawberry. Fuck, my dick’s getting hard again.
I swallow back my lust. “Saint and a small crew headed out. That’s about all I can tell you.”
Her small huff is adorable, blowing some of the stray hair from her forehead. It falls back, and I desperately want to tuck it behind her ear, but I keep my hands to myself. It’s difficult.
“I thought I was iced out at home, but this place takes it to another level.” Wren stabs a sausage with her fork and nibbles on it like she’s shy to eat in front of me.
I hang on the new information, ready to grab and tug at it to see how much I can get. “What was it like at home?”
She eyes me. Survival has taught her to be suspicious. To read a room. Read people. She’s doing it to me now. “It was quiet. Most of the time.”
Her blue and gold eyes stare into mine, and I have a feeling I know what it’s going to take to give me more. “Quiet until a storm blows in and has you ducking for cover, adrenaline dumping, senses on high alert so you can survive it?”
Wren stops chewing, eyes focused down for a beat until they shoot up to look into mine. “Something like that.”
I know what that’s like more than anyone. I’ve seen it firsthand, secondhand, thirdhand…more times than I can count. “It started when I was five. Or at least, that’s when I remember it starting. You know, our hippocampus doesn’t connect right away. Memories aren’t permanent.”
I shake my head. It’s always hard not to spiral out into medical facts when I think of home.
Wren’s features soften, eyes round as she reaches for my hand. Her fingers are chilly as she grips mine. A gentle reassurance. One I’ve deployed so many times.
“Long story short, my dad was a drunk. And when he was drunk, he liked to knock my mom around.”
After a beat of silence, she supplies the rest of the story for me. “Until one day, you’re old enough and big enough to step in and stop them.”
My laugh is humorless. “Yeah. And I didn’t win that first time. Or the second. Or the third.”
“That’s why you became a doctor?”
My thumb runs over her knuckles, reminding me of just how much I miss the simple pleasures of touching someone like this, the way sparks dance up my arm at the small contact.
“Yeah. That’s definitely a big part of it.”
When I don’t elaborate, she asks, “Why’d you stop?”
“I’ll tell you if you tell me why you ran.”
Her hand pulls free of mine, and she pushes it back through her hair then around her throat, and I swear my vision goes red.
“Wren?”
The faraway look in her eyes snaps back to the present, and she frowns at me. A small shake of her head. “He just…showed me what my future would look like if I stayed. And I didn’t look forward to being broken. Like my mom.”
By the genuine fear in her eyes, a lot worse than her mom.
“Did he put his hands on you?”
Her face turns away, and the breath that shudders in her chest makes her upcoming “yes” a bomb in this space between us.
I wait her out, hoping it will get her to open up. Everything inside of me wants to know and screams that I really don’t. Either way, anger is rising in my chest—calm and cold and dangerous.
After a harsh breath, she says, “He made it clear that I’d better be worth how long I made him wait.”
Our gazes meet in a flash before she’s looking across the room.
I bet she saw the anger in my expression, so I take a few seconds to settle it back where it belongs. “You should eat.”
“I’ve got plenty of time to eat.”
“Would it be easier if I fill in some of the details for you?”
Confusion furrows her brows.
I fall back into the bad habit of supplying the details no one else wants to give.
“Mom married rich, filled the role expected of her—silent, docile, obedient. She raised you to be the same way so that you would be the perfect bait for some rich asshole to make your daddy a good business deal. So you learned how to stay hidden, avoid attention, be who you had to be when you were in the spotlight. Sound about right?”
She’s trembling, arms wrapping around her elbows. “Sounds too close for comfort.”
“What am I missing?”
Wren sighs. “Just the details. Nothing I want to unpack, specifically.”
A “but” hangs in the air between us. “But?”
Half a shrug has her turning back to me. “I hated when Dad had parties, all those rich, entitled men gathered in one place. I knew the moment they saw me that if I didn’t get away, they’d hurt me.”
She rolls a blueberry against her plate.
“That’s how I felt when Grant showed up at my dressing room. I still put the dress on after that.” Wren shakes her head, disappointment in herself obvious.
“It’s a hard line to walk between what’s expected of you and what’s best for you.” I want to touch her so badly, to wipe away that guilt and self-loathing. But right now is not the best time for that.
Wren slides a blueberry between her lips and crushes it between her molars. She still won’t look at me.
“I was a trauma surgeon for five years. I’ve seen a lot of messed up shit.”
Finally, her gaze jumps back to mine. She’s smart. That small piece of information tells her a lot about me. Which is good. I don’t want to explain a lot of it.
I lick my lips, catching her looking.
“The number of women I had come into the ER, bruised, broken, and scared to say anything bad about their partners. Because when they left, they were going back to those men.” My hands curl into fists, the memory of my rage enough to feed my current anger at Grant Dalton.
“One woman came in every month, like clockwork. I couldn’t talk her into pressing charges or into finding a safe place for her to stay. ”
Her hand slides over my forearm, grounding me like I never expected someone’s touch to do.
“I walked in on him about to hit her again…fresh out of surgery from the last injury he caused…and I snapped.”
Wren’s thumb runs a delicate loop across my skin, and I just want to grab her, tuck her under me, and forget my past. Hers. And feel something good for a little while.
But the real world always comes crashing back in.
“I killed him. Right there in the emergency room. Threw a punch that sent him crashing into the bed. He hit his head, snapped his neck, and that was that. The end of my career.”
“And the end of her abuse.”
A sardonic laugh puffs out of my chest. “Yeah, that too.”
After a silent pause, I take her hand in mine again. It’s amazing how she grounds me. “Tell me about the violin.”
This time, she laughs a little louder. A little more genuine.
“It was my grandmother’s. She was not a socialite. At least, not the way my mom is. Gran remarried into an important family, but she’d already had her independence. Had a career in the spotlight that couldn’t easily be undone.”
“She was a violinist?”
Wren nods, smiling wistfully. “Yeah. First chair in the Cleveland Orchestra. One of the first women to hold that spot.”
I grin at her. “So, that’s where you get it from.”
She blinks at me. “Get what from?”
“All of that fire.”
This time, her laugh is warm, wrapping itself around me and making me want her even more. Heavy thumping boots and a pop, pop, pop sound overhead. Wren flinches, and I stand, gesturing for her to stay put.
I go into the hall and listen. No shouts. No blood. Judge appears in the door, meeting my gaze.
“Just some pests. False alarm.”
Nodding, I retreat back to Wren, who’s standing by her violin at the dresser.
I slowly close the distance between us, and she doesn’t move until my chest meets her back.
“It’s funny. I feel so safe here most of the time, I forget that I’m not. Not really,” she admits.
My hands come down on her shoulders, the touch slapping through us both. Turning enough to sink my nose into her hair, I take in a deep breath of her scent—sweet and powdery. Palms sliding down her arms, I relish in the way she shivers.
“Play. It’ll give you strength. Help you process.”
She nods, and I finally pull myself away from her, giving her the space to pull the instrument out, tuck it under her chin, and play the most chilling piece I’ve heard from her so far. It’s magnificent the way she connects with it so wholly.
Her one possession. Her thread back to her grandmother. The supportive link she had in her family. And lost.
How long ago was that?
I can’t see her face for the first half of her song, but the way she naturally sways and moves with the bow has her turned toward me. Tears make her cheeks shiny, and I’m stuck in place for as long as she’s abandoned herself to playing.
When the notes stop, I’m untethered, grabbing the violin and bow before she drops them, setting them down, and catching her before she collapses. Her tears come harder, wetting my shirt. Her fingers scramble against the cotton, and it burns me when her grip finds purchase.
Every sob drives my rage, the one that sent me after that husband at the hospital, after my own father… I want to go after Grant Dalton in a serious way. After her parents and the world that seems designed to crush women like Wren.
The thoughts circle darker and darker until Wren goes quiet.
Then everything inside me twists in on her with hyperawareness.
She pulls back an inch, wiping at her face, and I offer her the one positive thing my dad ever taught me, a good old-fashioned handkerchief.
A garbled laugh has her dabbing at her eyes and nose.
“Oh, give it a real go. Doctor, remember? I’ve seen all of it and worse.”
We both laugh as she clears her nose. I take it from her without flinching and stuff it in my pocket.
Even with her eyes red and puffy from crying, she’s still beautiful. The way she bites her lip has me shifting.
“Wren.” Fuck, I want to kiss her.
When her hands smooth over my chest, I dip closer, fighting with the hard rules. I need to let her initiate it. But god, the tension racks up, dancing along my every nerve ending.
She lifts, nose brushing mine, and I give into my impulses, mouth crashing down on hers. The involuntary moan in her throat drives me harder. And she kisses me back, tugging me closer.
I’m steering her back toward the wall when I pull my mouth from hers. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”
But when I see how blown her pupils are, I can’t stop.
We collide again, and I have her back against the wall, pressing into her, kissing her like my life depends on the small whimpers she’s making.