Chapter Eight
Rian
I put pressure on my injury as I watch the doc across the room.
I can’t believe I almost let him get away earlier, that I hadn’t been more prepared for him to run. It’s a mistake I won’t be making again. But then he helped me inside…took care of my wound again, talked about his mom.
He’s playing me. I would have to be an idiot not to know it, and if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s dumb enough not to see when someone is playing me. But the pain in his voice when he spoke about his mom was real. He loved her, loves her, and he misses her. She was important to him.
I know because I have the same sadness in me…and I have the same love in me for a person I lost, as well.
We don’t speak for a while—me on the couch, the doc in his uncomfortable kitchen chair. He watches me, and I do the same with him—both stubborn…and maybe curious about the other person we’ve found ourselves in this predicament with.
I’m hurting, my body feeling weaker by the moment. Our little wrestling session earlier didn’t help, but I refuse to let myself pass out.
“You need rest,” the doc says, as though he can read my thoughts.
“I’m fine.”
“Jesus. I hate that macho shit.” He rolls his eyes, and I can’t help but quirk a brow at him. He’s interesting, and I can’t remember the last time I found anyone or anything interesting.
“I’m not being macho.”
“What would you call it?”
“Watching the man I kidnapped so he doesn’t try to escape again?” I try, and I could swear, he almost smiles.
“I won’t…and I’m handcuffed.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t trust you anymore, now can I?”
“Anymore?” he asks, just as the same question filters through my head. Why had I said anymore? It’s not as if I ever did or could ever trust him.
I ignore that question, and the doc doesn’t probe any further.
He does end up falling asleep, as best he can in the uncomfortable chair.
My eyes linger on him more than they should.
He’s got strong features—a sharp jawline and a slender nose, but he looks softer in sleep, strangely gentle if that makes sense.
Maybe he looks that way most of the time, but can’t let himself around me.
I wish my attention wasn’t continually drawn to him—to the way he breathes, and the perfect way his face is put together that almost makes him look pretty.
I’ve never thought of a man that way before, so that’s my sign to force myself not to focus on him.
I try to close my eyes, but don’t let myself sleep, checking in with Conan multiple times while I wait for him to arrive.
It’s a few hours later when I hear the car and know it’s him, so I twist around so I’m sitting on the couch.
I don’t get up to greet him, mostly because I have to work up the energy. The doc startles awake when the door opens and Conan comes in. His gaze darts back and forth between the doc and me before he says, “You look like shit.” He sets a bag on the couch beside me.
“I feel like shit,” I counter.
“Did you get him antibiotics? And the other things I asked for?” the doc cuts in.
Conan doesn’t reply to him, instead asking me, “Keys?” I hand them over, and he unlocks the doc. “Do what you need to do to fix him. You hurt him, and I’ll kill you a whole lot more slowly than he will.”
The doc nods tentatively, then turns to me as though I’m going to counter anything Conan said. I don’t, and the doc hurries over to me, opening the large duffel and looking inside. “You were able to get IV supplies. I don’t know why I thought that was a long shot.”
“There’s not much we can’t do, and I ran everything by our physician, too, making sure you didn’t try to pull any shit.” Conan crosses his arms.
“I wouldn’t do that. That’s not who I am.” He doesn’t look away from me as he speaks. When he tries to walk away, Conan moves into his path—a lethal, disconnected look in his eyes. “I’m just washing my hands.”
“You didn’t do that earlier,” I remind him softly.
“That’s because you were going to pass out.”
“That’s because you tried to run,” I snap back.
“Do I need to leave the two of you alone?” Conan surprises me by asking, and I immediately shut down, heat scorching up my arms, but hell, maybe that’s a fever.
“Fuck off, C,” I say.
“Go,” he tells the doc, who moves into the kitchen, washes his hands, and comes back a moment later.
“Can we take him to bed?” the doc asks. When I quirk a brow at him, he rolls his eyes. “Not that way. You’re not my type. I like my men less murder-y.”
Yes, and I’ve never been interested in men at all, but I keep that bit of information to myself. It’s not as if there’s anything serious about this conversation at all.
“We’ll have more space,” he adds.
“Yes,” Conan answers before trying to help me up.
“I can do it,” I growl, but the second I stand, my legs get weak, and I wobble. Both men reach for me, one from each side, managing to keep me on my feet.
“Don’t be stubborn,” Conan says in unison with the doc’s, “Jesus, Rian.”
I feel the blast of heat ignite off my friend, feel the way he’s judging me because the doc knows my name.
It’s not as if he’s making it out of this alive, though, so what does it matter?
Still, he’s right to question me right now.
Nothing about this situation has been handled well. “Am I walking by myself or what?”
“I’ve got him,” Conan practically growls at the doc, taking his anger with me out on him. “Grab the things.”
The doc listens, the three of us walking to my room. I sit on the edge of the queen-sized bed, step out of my shoes, then lie on the soft blue bedding. Moira had picked it. Baby blue was her favorite color.
The doc ties a tourniquet on my arm, looking for a vein. When he finds one, he inserts a needle, giving me an IV first. He and Conan manage to maneuver a way to hang two bags from the slats on the headboard of the bed. “What is it?” I ask.
“Just some fluids and antibiotics,” the doc answers. He touches my head, my body bowing, nearly jolting off the bed with the tingle that hits my nape.
“What happened? What hurts?” he asks.
I shake my head, unable to find words, wondering when I lost my mind, why I’m imagining this feeling, and what the fuck is going on inside my brain that’s making me do it.
That has to be what it is, some kind of figment of my imagination.
What is the alternative? I have some weird, random connection to this man?
It’s fucking impossible. “Nothing. Just do what you need to do.”
He frowns down at me, and for the first time, I notice what looks like flecks of gold in his blue eyes. Is that even possible? Can blue eyes look like that?
“The IV antibiotics will help quicker. Your friend was able to get some pills, too. We’ll start those tomorrow, but for now, take this.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“A pain pill.”
I glance over to see Conan standing on the opposite side of the bed, watching the doc and me.
“I don’t need that,” I argue.
“You’re hurting, Rian. Plus, I need to irrigate and take care of your wound again. It’s not going to feel good. Take the pill.”
“No.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, making my gaze snap to him again.
I have a feeling Conan is doing the same thing, because who the fuck is this guy?
I kidnapped him. I tackled him when he tried to escape.
I’ve told him more than once how I plan to kill him, yet the idea of me hurting sincerely upsets him.
It makes me feel…strange—my heart races, while I have this almost floaty feeling. Probably the pain.
I take the pill from his hand, putting it in my mouth, before Conan hands me a bottle of water.
Pain medication always makes me pass out. I hate them, do anything in my power not to take them, but hell, there’s no denying I need the rest.
The doc does too. “When he’s done, let him sleep,” I tell Conan, who nods in response. I know him well enough not to expect him to try to stay tonight. “And feed him,” I add.
The doc watches me, but doesn’t say anything, then eventually shakes himself out of it and grabs a forehead thermometer. “You have a slight fever,” he tells me.
“Well, like he said, you better fix me up. Otherwise, he’ll kill you slower than I will.”
His return stare shuts down, eyes tight, the threat doing exactly what I wanted it to, and reminding us who’s in control here…who I am, and how much he hates me.