Chapter Nine #2
Pride and something deeper, something I wasn't ready to name, surged through me. This young man, who had every reason to run from more people trying to control his life, was choosing to trust me, choosing to believe that my protection wasn't another form of a cage.
I wheeled myself closer as Dr. Teller gestured for Connor to sit on the examination table. I positioned my chair so our shoulders were touching, offering silent support as Teller prepared his tools.
"This will be cold," Teller warned as he swabbed Connor's inner arm with antiseptic. The sharp medicinal smell filled the air, reminding me uncomfortably of hospitals and the months after my accident.
Connor's free hand clenched into a fist at his side, and without thinking, I reached out to cover it with my own. His eyes met mine, surprise flickering briefly before his fingers uncurled, accepting the comfort I offered.
Teller picked up what looked like a specialized syringe, and my stomach tightened. "This is just the local anesthetic," he assured us, noticing my reaction. "You'll feel a small pinch, Connor, and then numbness."
Connor nodded, his eyes fixed determinedly on a point on the far wall as Teller administered the injection. His hand tightened momentarily in mine, then relaxed as the anesthetic took effect.
"Good," Teller murmured, setting aside the syringe and picking up a small scalpel. "Now for the incision."
The moment the blade touched Connor's skin, something primal and protective roared to life inside me. I watched as a thin line of red appeared on Connor's arm, and before I could stop myself, I barked out, "What are you doing?"
Teller paused, looking at me with professional patience. "Making the necessary incision to insert the tracker, Julian. The area is completely numb. Connor can't feel a thing."
My rational mind understood this, but it did nothing to quell the rage building in my chest at the sight of Connor's blood, at the clinical way Teller was cutting into the man who had become so unexpectedly important to me.
"It's okay," Connor said softly, surprising me again by becoming the reassuring one. "I really can't feel anything."
I forced myself to nod, to loosen my white-knuckled grip on the armrests of my wheelchair. Still, I couldn't take my eyes off the procedure, watching with clenched jaw as Teller used a specialized tool to create a small pocket beneath Connor's skin.
The tracker itself was deceptively small—a smooth, pill-shaped object that gleamed under the bright lab lights. Teller picked it up with sterile forceps, showing it to Connor briefly before positioning it at the incision site.
"This will take just a moment," he said, his focus entirely on his work as he slid the tracker beneath Connor's skin.
I watched Connor's face rather than the procedure, searching for any sign of pain or distress. But his expression remained determinedly neutral, though I could see the effort it cost him in the tightness around his eyes, the slight paleness of his lips.
My own body was rigid with tension, every protective instinct screaming at me to stop this, to whisk Connor away somewhere safe where he wouldn't need trackers or security or constant vigilance.
But there was nowhere safe enough, not with Harris hunting him. Not with his own family willing to sell him to the highest bidder.
"There we go," Teller said finally, setting aside his tools and reaching for the butterfly bandage. "All done."
I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding as Teller sealed the small incision and wiped away the traces of blood. The entire procedure had taken less than five minutes, but it had felt like hours.
All that remained was a small white bandage on Connor's inner arm, the only visible evidence of the technology now embedded beneath his skin.
"The tracker is activated and functioning perfectly," Jake announced from a nearby computer terminal. "Signal is clear and strong."
Connor looked down at the bandage, then up at me with an unreadable expression. "I guess this makes me officially yours now, doesn't it? Property of Julian Montgomery, if found please return."
The attempt at humor couldn't quite mask the vulnerability underneath. I reached out, my fingers gently touching the skin beside the bandage, creating a connection that felt more significant than the technological one we'd just established.
"Not property," I said firmly, meeting his eyes. "Never that."
Connor held my gaze for a long moment, searching for something in my expression. Whatever he found seemed to satisfy him, because his shoulders relaxed slightly, some of the tension draining away.
"Well," he said, rolling his sleeve back down carefully. "One down, one to go. Your turn, Mr. Montgomery."
I blinked in surprise. "My turn?"
"If I'm getting tracked, you are too," Connor said, his tone leaving no room for argument as he pushed my wheelchair toward the stool Teller was now preparing. "Equality in marriage and all that."
Our eyes met, and I saw the fear he was trying so hard to hide—not fear for himself, but for me.
Connor held up his arm after the procedure, the small white bandage stark against his skin.
"There, see? Easy peasy," he said with forced lightness.
But I caught the way his other hand trembled slightly against his thigh, the subtle tells of stress that I'd somehow learned to read in the short time we'd been together.
When had I become so attuned to this man I barely knew? When had his pain started to feel like my own?
"Your turn," Connor insisted, moving behind my wheelchair and propelling me toward the stool where Dr. Teller waited. His fingers brushed against my shoulder—a casual touch that somehow carried the weight of shared experience, of mutual protection.
I allowed him to guide me, finding myself oddly moved by this role reversal. For days, I had been the protector, the shield between Connor and a world that wanted to use him. Now he stood beside me, determined to ensure I had the same safeguards he did.
"Mr. Montgomery is quite right," Dr. Teller observed as he prepared a fresh set of instruments. "If Harris is targeting Connor, you're at risk as well. These people rarely limit themselves to a single approach."
I nodded, already having reached the same conclusion.
Harris wouldn't hesitate to use me as leverage if he couldn't get to Connor directly.
The man collected people like others collected art—prized possessions to be acquired, displayed, and eventually discarded.
The thought of Connor in his hands made something cold and dangerous unfurl inside me.
I removed my jacket and rolled up my sleeve, presenting my arm to Teller with practiced efficiency. This wasn't my first medical procedure, after all. The months after my accident had been an endless parade of needles, scalpels, and clinical hands probing at my broken body.
Connor moved to stand beside me, our eyes meeting in a moment of silent understanding. There was vulnerability in his gaze, but also determination—the same steel core I'd glimpsed when he'd faced down his family, when he'd chosen to trust me despite having every reason not to trust anyone.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, echoing the question he'd posed earlier, but this time with gentle teasing.
I offered him a small smile. "I've had worse."
The antiseptic swab was cold against my skin, the familiar medicinal smell transporting me momentarily back to the hospital—to the moment I'd been told I would never walk again.
I'd faced that news alone, my hospital room empty of visitors except for Jake and my other frat brother, and the occasional business associate who'd come more out of obligation than concern.
This time was different. Connor's fingers found mine as Teller administered the local anesthetic, his grip warm and reassuring. The role reversal was so complete it was almost amusing—the younger man comforting me, offering strength I hadn't realized I needed.
"You're next on Harris's list too, aren't you?" Connor asked quietly as Teller made the small incision. His eyes, fixed on my face rather than the procedure, held a dawning realization. "If he can't have me, he'll try to hurt you."
The question cut through my careful defenses, laying bare the truth I'd been trying to shield him from. I'd been so focused on protecting Connor that I hadn't fully considered how he might feel about the danger to me.
"Possibly," I admitted, seeing no point in lying. "Harris isn't used to losing. Men like him take it personally when something they want is denied them."
Connor's grip on my hand tightened. "This is my fault."
"No." My response was immediate and firm, despite the strange sensation of Teller inserting the tracker beneath my skin. "Harris's obsession is his own issue, not yours."
Connor didn't look convinced, but before he could argue further, Teller announced, "All done," and applied the butterfly bandage to my arm. The procedure had been as quick and painless as promised, yet it felt far more significant than its clinical nature suggested.
Jake approached from the computer terminal, nodding in satisfaction. "Both trackers are online and functioning perfectly. The encryption is military-grade—no one's hacking this system." He looked between us, his business demeanor softening slightly. "You're as protected as technology can make you."
I rolled my sleeve down, covering the small bandage that now matched Connor's. There was something strangely intimate about it—knowing we carried identical technology beneath our skin, that our locations and vital signs were now linked in Jake's secure system.
Another bond connecting us beyond the hasty marriage certificate and the unexpected chemistry that had brought us together.
"Thank you, Jake," I said, meaning it despite my lingering uneasiness about the whole situation. "And you, Norris. I appreciate the discretion."