Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Laz
It's been three weeks. Three entire, godforsaken, miserable fucking weeks.
There's a reason I could never go through with getting all the R out of my system—it's the utter nauseating torture the past three weeks have been.
I've been sick. I've been sore. I've been weak and dizzy.
I've been angry, unbelievably angry. I've been in the darkest, most desolate state that I have ever been in.
I thought I was going to be in endless agony until last night.
Last night, as I was curled around myself under the pile of blankets on my bed, I think I felt the final drop of poison leak out of me.
I know that's impossible, but the unease I've carried with me for the past several years just suddenly dropped away, all at once.
I swear it sounded like a bell. I'm not going to fool myself into thinking it's over.
I'll probably suffer to some degree for the rest of my life, or at least for a while to come, but last night was the first night in a very long time that I slept without waking up to pain or sickness or emptiness.
And Brooks was right there with me.
He's slept in the recliner in my room since he brought me here.
It's becoming home, slowly and gradually.
I don't know what to think of that or how to feel about it.
I never thought I'd be back here with him.
The house doesn't matter. Brooks is the home I abandoned, and he is the home I've returned to.
I just feel so fucking guilty. It's eating me alive.
He shouldn't have to suffer along with me, but I know he has.
I can feel him, so I know he can feel me.
He's been with me through every horrible minute of this, and he's as steadfast as he ever was.
I don't deserve him, and he certainly doesn't deserve me.
Nobody deserves that mess, but here he is, still cleaning it up.
We haven't discussed that night. I don't remember it.
I don't remember anything about that night.
The last thing I remember is Kris smiling at me as she loosened the tourniquet, and then everything fell away.
I know I begged her to stop. As soon as she started looping it around my arm, I knew I was in trouble.
Tourniquets are for large doses or long doses, and we'd agreed not to do either of those ever again.
I wasn't surprised, though. I knew it was coming.
I wish I remembered Brooks marking me. I know it didn't happen the way it usually happens with claiming marks.
I was dying. Fucking and knotting wasn't an option.
But the bond took, nonetheless. Brooks has been a constant nudge in the corner of my consciousness, and likely my unconsciousness, since I woke up in the hospital wishing I was dead.
Brooks feels...
He feels...
I don't know. Overwhelmingly positive most of the time, but there's no way he's walking around on rainbows and butterflies right now.
No, he's internally lying for my benefit.
That's why I'm in a mood this morning. His oddly sunny disposition.
He can be as happy as he wants to be, but I know he isn't that happy all the time, even when times are good.
I can't ask him about it, either. He'd just lie externally, all in the name of protection.
I don't want him to lie. I'm the liar in this relationship; there's no room for him in the role.
He's sitting across the table right now, humming like an idiot and drinking the world's strongest coffee while he reads over some paperwork. What even is that paperwork? I haven't asked him about what he actually does for work, and now I can't because I haven't yet, and that's shit of me.
“Lazarus.”
I look up from my plate of eggs. He's staring at me over the top of his stack of papers, brows arched majestically. “Hmm?”
The corner of his mouth threatens to lift. “Something on your mind?”
“No,” I huff.
He puts his papers down beside his coffee and gives me his full attention.
“What do you do?” I blurt.
He licks his lips and smiles at me. “I spend ill-gotten money on good deeds.”
“Trying to get into heaven?”
His smile twists into a smirk. “No more than anyone else.”
“Why did you pick this house?”
“I liked the long driveway.”
“Do you pay Mrs. Richards enough?”
“I pay her as much as she'll let me.”
“Where is your office?”
“Down the hall?”
“Why didn't you find someone else?”
“Are you trying to pick a fight with me?”
I stab my fork into a pile of egg and lift it a few inches off the plate so I can watch it slide off the end of the fork. “Maybe.”
“Why? Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I grumble. “I mean... no. You didn't do anything.”
“Don't lie to me. We're adults. If I've done something, you need to tell me so we can talk about it.”
I put the fork down on the table with a thud. “Fine. You should be angry with me.”
His brows furrow. “You're upset because I'm not angry with you?”
“Maybe.”
“Don't worry, baby. I am angry with you.”
My mouth falls open. “Why haven't you said anything? Why can't I feel it?”
“What good will it do either of us?” he asks. His voice is very level, very careful. “Do you want me to scream at you? Tell you everything you've done to hurt me? Obsess about the life we could have had if you hadn't left? Call you everything but your name?”
I nod.
“Well, I've already done that. I did that for the better part of eight years. I'm still so angry with you that sometimes it's hard to breathe, but that isn't what I want to focus on, so I don't. I don't want to act on those feelings. I want to move forward. With you.”
Stupid, infuriating tears fill my eyes, and I blink them away. “How can you just... How can you just move forward?”
“Therapy,” he deadpans.
I gape at him for a few silent moments. The Brooks who I knew before would not be moving forward, and he most definitely wouldn't be in therapy.
“What?” he asks. “I'm allowed to grow as a person. Just because I feel angry doesn't mean I have to be angry.”
I'm still staring.
He rolls his eyes. “And you might as well get used to the idea because you start next week.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Therapy? Are you serious?”
He levels me with a look. “Do I look like I'm joking?”
I shake my head. I've never even considered therapy.
What would I tell a therapist? That I'm a junkie?
An addict? That I'm a slut? That I whore myself out for my next fix or for fear of being uncomfortable?
Those things might be true, but I can't say them in a professional setting.
That's bad enough, but what if... Oh God. “With you?”
“Do you want me to stay with you? I booked you with my therapist because I know you'll be safe there, but I hadn't planned on staying with you during the appointment. If you want me to stay, I will. Just say the word. Anything you need.”
I need to go back to bed. The mere concept of Brooks sitting next to me while I spill my rotten soul fills me with pure horror. I'd never survive it. “I don't think that would be a good idea.”
He's curious; I can see it all over his face, but he doesn't push the topic. Instead, he moves to the next uncomfortable subject.
“You have another appointment with the doctor this afternoon. This one will be the last for a few weeks unless you need to be seen before then, right?”
I slump against the back of my chair. I am sick of appointments.
I haven't seen a doctor this much since I was a child.
I'm happy to be finished with them. I know they mean well, but they're so intrusive.
I just want the doctor to sign off on my general health so I can try to get back into a normal routine.
I miss routine. Even the awful, toxic one I had with Kris was still a routine.
Regular, everyday routines don't include multiple medical appointments every week.
“Yeah,” I confirm, picking up my fork to stab at my cold eggs again. “He says I've made good progress.”
Brooks nods. “I'm proud of you.”
“Don't be.”
His mouth thins into a small, tight line. “Don't dismiss the work you've put into yourself, Laz.”
I don't have a response to that that he'll accept, so I just nod and keep pushing my eggs around the plate.
The appointment with the doctor is awkward at best. I want to talk about my reproductive health and the permanent damage I may have caused, but he insists on focusing on my physical well-being.
The blunt, raw truth of the matter is that I miss sex. I miss the release, both physical and mental. I'm an Omega—a spoiled Omega, situation be damned. I need attention. I need affection. I crave it, and I'm beginning to feel the lack of it.
Brooks touches me in a very general way. A shoulder squeeze here, a pat on the back there, the occasional stroke of the hair. It isn't enough. If I'm going to be his Omega, then he needs to treat me that way, which is exactly what I told the doctor.
“Isn't that what he's doing?” he counters.
“He's making sure his Omega is in very good health after a very stressful and demanding ordeal. Did you expect him to bring you home and have his way with you on the very first night? You were basically dead, Mr. Williams. Be a little patient. Do you think this intense need for physical affection is part of your recovery process?”
“I think Omegas need physical affection.”
He nods. “I agree. But you can have physical affection without turning it into intercourse. Can't you?”
Maybe. I don't know. It's been a long time since I tried. I was even standoffish with Kris for the past couple of years. “Maybe.”
“That's going to have to be good enough for now because I'm not signing off on sex until we get your hormones level. We'll draw a sample today and another in a week or so. By then you'll have met with the reproductive specialists.”
“Reproductive specialists?” I repeat, dumbfounded. No, shocked. “Why do I need to see reproductive specialists?”
“When was your last natural heat?”