Chapter 8 Norah
Eight
Norah
The doctor’s office is located in an old bungalow with white washed walls and a steeply slanted brown roof.
Rowan easily maneuvers his truck into a parking spot, and the sight of his big hands on the steering wheel has almost been enough of a distraction to make me forget about the angry throbbing in my arm.
Almost, because it hurts. A lot.
Embarrassment floods me at how much I panicked over the sight of all that blood coming out of my arm. I’m a huge wimp when it comes to blood. Feeling the warm, stickiness of it trickling over my skin…I thought I was going to pass out.
Still. I wish I’d kept it together in front of Rowan. Not that it matters.
The truck door creaks as Rowan pushes it open, his boots hitting the gravel before he rounds the front to help me down.
His hands span my waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing, and for a second, I’m suspended in the air, close enough to feel the heat of his body, to catch the faintest hint of something warm and yummy smelling that I’m pretty sure is just his skin.
He sets me down gently, fingers lingering on my waist. He’s so much taller than me, so big and broad, that he blocks out everything.
I should pull away. For my own sanity, I should. But the way he’s looking at me right now, all protective and hot, makes my heart pound so hard that my chest aches.
We enter the small building, and I’m immediately hit with the smell of antiseptic and lavender air freshener.
Rowan’s hand hovers at the small of my back as we check in, his touch light but the exact thing I need right now.
The clinic is empty, thankfully, and we only have to wait a few minutes before I’m called back.
Rowan doesn’t ask. He just follows me into the examination room, his hand once again on the small of my back.
The exam room is small but clean, with white walls and brightly coloured posters on the wall advertising pneumonia vaccines for seniors, a weight loss study looking for volunteers, and a weekly class for expectant parents.
The paper crinkles under me as I hoist myself up onto the table.
My movements are a bit awkward because I’m currently pretending that my left arm doesn’t exist to avoid thinking about the cut, the blood, the stiches I’ll probably need.
Rowan leans against the wall, arms crossed, not taking his eyes off me.
The doctor—a middle-aged man with a kind smile—steps in, clipboard in hand.
“Norah Marlowe?” he asks, glancing between us.
I nod.
He turns to Rowan. “And you are?” There’s no animosity in his tone, just curiosity.
“I’m her husband,” says Rowan easily, and all of the air goes out of my lungs.
The doctor nods, unfazed, completely oblivious to the riot taking place inside me. My heart is a wild bird in my chest, my stomach a mass of butterflies.
Husband. The word echoes in my head, and I can’t seem to think. It’s not real. It’s magic. But the way he said it—so sure, so steady—makes my stomach twist.
Makes my foolish heart hope. But then I remember how badly he wants to get rid of the bond, and I tell myself he only said that so he wouldn’t get kicked out of the room.
“And what brings you in today?” asks the doctor, sitting down on a little stool with wheels on the bottom.
“She fell. We’re working on an archeaological dig not far from here, and she fell about ten feet into an open pit,” answers Rowan.
“Goodness, you’ve had quite the day,” he says, looking at me. He checks my pupils while asking if I hit my head.
“No, I landed mostly on my hip and shoulder,” I say, and he nods. “I cut my arm on a rock, though.”
“Let’s take a look,” he says. He pulls on a pair of latex gloves and then peels back the gauze on my arm. I try not to, but I flinch. The gash is deeper than I thought, and about two inches long. The doctor hums, pressing gently around the edges. I wince.
“Yes, this needs cleaning and stitches.”
“How—how many?” I ask, voice wavering.
The doctor hums again and tilts his head. “Probably ten or so, I’d think.”
My stomach drops. I hate needles. Hate the idea of something sharp piercing my skin, pulling, tugging—
Oh god, I’m going to be sick.
But then Rowan is there, and he takes my free hand, his fingers threading through mine and calming me almost instantly. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, a slow, soothing sweep.
“You’re being so brave,” he says quietly, and I think I’d find his words patronizing if they didn’t sink into me like a balm.
“Just look at me, sweetheart. Keep your eyes on me.” So I do, locking my gaze onto his stormy eyes.
His free hand cups my cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear I didn’t even realize had fallen.
“That’s it,” he says, soft but firm. “You’ve got this. I’ll be right here with you the entire time.”
I don’t look as the doctor hums to himself and arranges his tools on a sterile tray. The sounds alone are enough to make me cringe. Wrappers tearing open, soft metallic clinks. It all makes my stomach twist into a sickening knot.
God. I am such a baby.
Rowan’s thumb keeps tracing slow circles on the back of my hand, his other hand still cupping my face.
“You’re doing so well,” he says softly. “Just breathe for me, darling.”
I try, but my lungs feel too small. The doctor begins cleaning the cut with something cold and sharp-smelling. I flinch.
“Eyes on me, remember?” Rowan says, and I flick my gaze back to him. His eyes are warm, sympathetic, and his touch is tender. “Tell me about the first artifact you ever held.”
I swallow, flinching as the doctor injects something to numb my skin. “A— a Roman coin. My family went on vacation to Italy. I was twelve.”
“What type of coin was it? Do you remember?”
“I do. It was a silver Denarius with Hadrian on it. I still have it.”
The first stitch tugs at my skin. The pain is minimal thanks to the numbing agent, but the sensation is still sickening. I gasp, fingers tightening around Rowan’s.
“Good girl,” he says, and something in my chest loosens. “You’re doing so well. You can handle this. I know you can.”
I huff out a shaky laugh. “Yes, I’m clearly so big and brave.” I roll my eyes a little. The only boyfriend I’ve ever had mocked me endlessly for my blood phobia.
“You are.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone.
“You moved halfway around the world to pursue your education. You stood up for Janik when Professor Cameron accused him of plagiarism. You followed me into the woods and participated in an ancient ritual with me.” He grins, lines fanning out around his eyes.
“You put up with me on a near daily basis.”
The doctor chuckles, but I barely hear him. Rowan’s voice is all I can focus on.
“Tell me what you felt when you saw the altar for the first time,” he says.
Another stitch. Another sharp pull. I whimper, but Rowan’s fingers caressing mine are the perfect distraction.
“Like I was both someplace new and someplace familiar. Like it was where I’d been before, and where I was meant to be.”
“I felt the same way,” he says softly. Then he leans in closer, his lips brushing against the sensitive shell of my ear. “I felt like you were the person I was supposed to be there with. Because deep down, some part of me knew you were meant to be mine.”
The words send a shiver down my spine. The doctor works in silence for a moment, but I don’t notice the pain as much. Not when Rowan’s thumb keeps sweeping over my skin, not when he’s whispering such…delicious things in my ear. Things that I want so badly to be true.
“You’re almost done,” he says. “Just a few more.”
I nod, biting my lip. The needle pricks again, but I don’t look away from him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re so brave. So perfect.”
I melt. At least, my insides do. I’m turning into a puddle of mush at his words.
The last stitch tugs at my skin. “All done,” says the doctor, and I exhale, letting all the tension out of my body.
Rowan presses a kiss to my forehead. “You did it, sweetheart.” My stomach flutters at his words.
“Watch for redness, swelling, or fever,” the doctor says, snapping off his gloves. “Keep it dry for at least 24 hours, and just wash around it with clean water for the first couple of days. You can take paracetamol for the pain if needed. Come back in a week to get the stitches removed.”
Rowan nods, absorbing all of this. “Thank you.”
We head back to the car, and it’s full dark outside now. “We’re staying at the bed and breakfast tonight,” he says, helping me into the truck. “After your fall, the last thing you need is an air mattress.”
I exhale, relief flooding me. “Thank you.”
The drive through town is quiet, the headlights cutting through the dark. Rowan’s hand rests possessively on my thigh, and I don’t pull away, even though a part of me thinks I should, because I like all of this way too much.
The bed and breakfast is the same one I stayed in before the dig—cozy, with floral wallpaper and the faint scent of cinnamon. The front desk clerk smiles when we walk in.
“We’d like two rooms for the night,” I tell her as Rowan hovers behind me.
“Only one room left, I’m afraid,” she says, tapping at her keyboard.
Rowan seems unperturbed by this, and slides his credit card across the counter.
“That’s fine.” When I stayed here before, my room had two twin beds in it.
Maybe this one will be the same. I hope it is, because despite all of the I’m her husband, you’re so brave, so perfect talk, I still have no idea where we stand.
Once we’re officially checked in, we take the stairs up, Rowan’s arm around my waist. I don’t need steadying, but I’m not complaining.
We arrive at room number seven, and it’s cozy and clean, with floral curtains and polished hardwood floors.
There’s only one bed, though. One queen sized bed, sitting right in the middle of the room.