Chapter 27
Ford
I shouldn’t look. There was no use in looking, in torturing myself further.
The Bond, however, was a masochist. Maybe I was a little bit, too. Some latent part of me needing to feel like I paid my dues for what Esme had been through, pain being the preferred currency.
It was why I fell to my knees in the middle of Peter’s office, shaking hands reaching for the photos strewn across the floor.
I could hear Esme’s voice behind me, her hand hovering over my shoulder. The Bond didn’t care, not right now.
I need to see, it chanted over and over and over again.
When my fingers curled around the first photo, lifting it up to inspect, I felt my heart rip apart in my chest.
Esme’s face was covered in a light sheen of blood, dotted with something that looked like freckles. That was wrong, I knew where her freckles were. These weren’t the right color either, a darker red instead of deep brown.
Veins. That had burst from overexertion, I realized. Soren had said that happened, but it was a different thing to see it.
Distantly, I heard a sound come from my throat. Followed by a series of pleas from Esme.
In a sharp change of course, the Bond didn’t care what she had to say right now. It was a hungry, snarling beast needing to rip into the meal in front of it.
The next photo was of her bare back, dark bruises tracing the line of her spine and each rib. Her shoulder blades were marked with streaks of red—more blood. There was a smattering of cuts across her skin, like she’d walked through a thorny bush without noticing the pain.
The next was of her right leg, her shin bone pressing against her skin at an odd, clearly broken angle. The next of her wrist, shattered and bruised.
More photos, cataloging more injuries, each of which made the storm in my chest rage even harder, the blood rush in my ears louder, churning towards some impossible peak of intensity.
It felt like it might have reached that point when underneath the photos rested a crisp sheet of white paper, lined with sloppy handwriting.
Esme’s name was at the top, followed by a date of birth that I knew to be entirely guesswork. Then, paranima to Ford Langley. A single ray of sunlight burst through the storm, only to be eclipsed by what I read next.
It was her medical records.
Esme Prescott, admitted after coding three times in the field. Patient was in the process of rescuing their paranima from capture.
Patient nearly succumbed to her injuries. Live saving support was required for over an hour until her heart rate stabilized. Vitals leveled out after Doctor Jansen finished suturing Ford Langley, their paranima.
Patient suffered fractures of four vertebrae. Spinal cord was inflammed. Patient appears to have torn nearly thirty different muscles and tendons. Broken right tibia, left radius and ulna. Patient appears to have a torn her abdominal muscles in two different places.
Patient also shows signs of severe dehydration. Patient was sweating blood and upon inspection, most blood vessels in the eyes were popped.
The most pressing concern is the patient’s mental state. She remained conscious through the examination, despite obvious pain. Patient likely worsened her injuries fighting restraints. Sedatives were administered and were ineffective.
Patient ultimately fell unconscious when placed in the same room as her paranima.
Another entry, notated as a day later. I didn’t know how I was even still reading. My chest felt like it was cracking open.
The Bond was screaming.
Patient has reached a full physical recovery. As stated, patient’s mental state remains the most pressing concern. Patient will not leave her paranima’s bedside and becomes combative when people try to move her.
Patient is in a catatonic state and refuses food and water. At this stage, the doctors have spoken with General Bello about other treatments.
Last one, another day later.
With the addition of medication, patient appears fully recovered. They voluntarily left their paranima’s side.
Surely, it wouldn’t be dramatic if I took a match to that file. To the entire office. Peter would forgive me.
There was a fissure cutting down the middle of my sanity, sending tremors out in its wake that were making my hands shake so violently, they started to blur before my eyes.
Maybe those were tears, could well have been.
Something was trying to ground me, pulling at the edges of my consciousness with a warm touch that felt more familiar than the feel of my skin pulling across my own body.
I reached for it, begging for an anchor against the terrifying trajectory of my own thoughts. It felt like the photos in front of me were coming to life, taunting me with my failures.
How I’d let the most important person in my life push herself to the brink of death…
I felt like an animal on the edge of starvation.
That distant warmth spread across my shoulders before the object of my disdain disappeared behind a figure coming into my line of sight.
A deep snarl left my throat.
“Hey,” a soft, melodic voice cooed in my ears. “Hey, look at me. Please look at me. You’re scaring me.”
Something broke, allowing my mind to clear enough to see Esme in front of me.
Esme, alive. Esme, safe. Esme, with smooth skin free of bruises.
I wasn’t proud of the sound that fell out of my mouth as I crushed her to me.
My face tucked into the crook of her neck, chanting I’m sorry against her skin over and over and over again. All the while, my arms wrapped around her midsection, grabbing opposite hips with a punishing pressure.
Esme’s grip on me was just as secure, one hand threading in my hair and the other tucking under my shirt to rest over my shoulder. She was murmuring something to me, but I couldn’t hear it over the sound of my own heartbeat.
I’d had a few panic attacks in the past, especially when I’d pushed away my emotional reactions to things until the point where they came rushing out all at once.
I could feel those symptoms coming on again—the shortness of breath, the wayward trajectory of my thoughts, the overwhelming feeling of doom.
I knew I was probably scaring Esme—she’d just said as much—reduced to some mumbling version of myself who was leaking tears against the warmth of her neck. The urge was there, to just shove it down and act like my chest didn’t feel shredded.
It was the image of her lying in that hospital bed, face covered in bruises and eyes blurry with a sort of crazed intensity, that kept me in focus. Esme had done the same thing—maybe I’d even made her feel like she had to, taking a page out of my book—and it had almost killed her.
I’d be damned if I introduced that habit into our dynamic now, not when I finally had her.
I lightened my grip, though the Bond expressed its disgust at that prospect. I wasn’t that keen on it either, but I pulled back just enough to slide my forehead up to Esme’s.
“How we doing?” she asked, her voice clear and light.
I chuckled against her lips, not quite pressing our mouths together. “Not great. I think I need to take you to a doctor.”
It was Esme’s turn to laugh, a light burst of breath passing between us. “You’d be okay with someone else inspecting my body right now? You don’t want to do that yourself?”
The next thing I knew, Esme was on her back on the floor and I was braced over her. It was her bright laugh that brought me back down to earth. “Oh,” I said, blinking a few times.
I popped up, dragging her to stand with me. “Yep, alright,” I muttered to myself. I would not try to undress her in Peter’s office. “Okay, right.”
A few more seconds passed where all I could manage was nonsensical babble, wrestling with my instincts and the Bond. Peter told us to rest. We had time. I just needed to focus long enough to get us to privacy.
“The file,” Esme prompted lightly, very wisely instructing me rather than trying to do it herself. If she tried to move right now, I wasn’t confident I wouldn’t tackle her to the ground.
“Right.” I bent down so fast, I almost lost balance, sweeping up the file and those cursed photos.
Burn them. Rip them up. I want them gone. The Bond was whining now.
With a potent promise that it would get it what it wanted very soon, I made quick work of setting everything to rights in Peter’s office and locking up the safe.
The very second the file cabinet clicked close, the Bond decided it had enough of my commitment to responsibility and yanked me out of the driver’s seat.
Esme was over my shoulder a second later, my arm banding around the back of her legs. Her laugh hit the center of my back, sending heat skating up my skin. It did a damn good job of chasing away the bitter cold rage and fear that was still tightening my muscles to the point of pain.
Her laugh only deepened when I stepped outside with no intention of letting her down. There was a tiny part of me—okay, a large part of me—that needed to walk out in the open with her like this, making it very, very clear that we were together.
I was hoping a few people tried to catch my eye so I had an excuse to glare at them. That would really drive the point home.
Esme deserved, after everything, to have everyone think I was slobbering after her. It was the truth, but I didn’t quite trust myself to get the message across with my usual methods.
So carrying her like a sack of flour in front of our entire camp, it was.
After one particularly bold comrade of ours barked at me across the field, “Oi, looks like you got a prize, Ford!” and I’d responded, “Shut it, Sanders, or I’m cutting out your tongue,”
Esme started to get the idea.
Her laughter died and I could feel her skin heating under my touch. I never claimed to be a particularly merciful man, and so I might have hitched my hand on her leg up higher, the curve of my finger pressing right between her thighs.
I really knew I was getting to her when she murmured, “Can you hurry up?” against my back. In reality, it was probably an incoherent mumble. I understood her perfectly.