12. Twelve
I make sure to hold the door open for her when we walk back into the house, and she gives me a sharp nod in thanks. I hate that I’ve given her plenty of reasons to want to stay away from me. I lied, pretended to be someone I wasn’t, and didn’t act fast enough to help her. I deserve every bit of her distrust, but I still can’t stand that she won’t really look at me.
That’s not true. She’s glanced at me a couple times, but it seems to be more out of survival. Always checking her surroundings and keeping tabs on what everyone is doing around her. She’s too aware, too on edge, and it sours my stomach to think about why that is. Her face was a mask of rage and betrayal the one time she really looked at me today. I wanted to go to her, to explain everything immediately and apologize. Then she spit directly in Ray’s face.
Her eyes widened immediately after, fear written all over her face. She was waiting for retaliation, ready for some kind of punishment. Maybe she thought she was going to be hurt, but she doesn’t know Ray like I do. He would never hurt anyone without a reason, and spitting in his face wouldn’t even scratch the surface of slights against him. If anything, it endeared him to her, and whatever he might be planning as a response sure as hell isn’t going to involve pain.
When she was off running through the woods with Dane, Ray couldn’t stop himself from sharing all his dirty thoughts. The plans he had if Mads gave him even half a shot. I didn’t verbalize any of it, but I couldn’t stop myself from sharing in the fantasy.
Technically, I had those fantasies first. I was the first one to lay eyes on Mads, and despite the brutal conditions I found her in, I couldn’t help but think all sorts of dirty things about her. How she tasted. How she sounded when she came. Something about the guarded woman in the examination room, the one whose fire and wit were barely contained, woke something up in me.
I hated the way Ray was talking to me about her. Hated it in a way I’ve never felt about anything he’s ever done. We practically grew up together, sharing so many formative experiences, but in that moment, I felt possessive. I was on the verge of childishly calling ‘dibs’ on her, doing anything I could to claim her as mine. Madeline was my territory to mark.
No. She’s not mine. I can’t lay any claim, and I have absolutely no intentions to. She deserves so much better than what any of us can give her, and I would be an asshole to suggest otherwise. Madeline has been through enough, and we’re just getting started together. She doesn’t get a choice in her future with us, Dane ensured that.
I refuse to be yet another thing she doesn’t get to choose for herself.
But that asshole inner voice still wants her to choose me. Right now, however, she needs more immediate attention that has nothing to do with my possessive desires.
I stop in the kitchen, and she turns more towards me, but her eyes don’t meet mine. They’re still scanning the room, taking in every detail she can. I don’t miss the longing in her eyes as they linger on every door.
She’s still cradling her arm against her chest, but she doesn’t seem to be too bothered by it. She’s holding it almost out of habit, rather than trying to alleviate any pain. I scan her from head to toe, and I try to convince myself it’s for purely medical reasons, pretending that my eyes didn’t want to linger where they shouldn’t. The rest of her body seems loose, almost relaxed, and I nearly sigh with relief, knowing that she doesn’t have multiple major injuries.
“Is it broken?” I ask, after allowing her a minute to avoid acknowledging my presence.
She snaps her eyes to mine, looking almost shocked.
Does she always do that? Is she always surprised to have someone speak directly to her? The thought sticks to my skin like fly paper.
“Your wrist, Dane told me to splint it.”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll be fine.” She cuts her eyes down to the bruising already forming. “Good as new in a few days, but you knew that already.” She adds the last bit somewhat bitterly.
“Did he do it?”
Something akin to shock, maybe fear, crosses her face, and my hands clench at my sides, shit. I wish I could take that question back.
“I tripped, Mark - Tucker, whatever.” Her head shakes quickly, as if she’s trying to physically sort out all the new information, forcing the loose pieces to fit together in her mind. “Are you saying he would do this on purpose? He’d break my wrist if I didn’t come back willingly?”
“No, Mads, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I asked that. He wouldn’t do that to you, or to any of us.”
She pauses, her brows pinching together before she spits out, “Why the hell do you keep calling me that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mads. You called me that in the exam room, and you keep calling me that now. That’s not my name.”
“I’m not sure. Does it bother you?” I have no idea where the nickname came from. It just happened. I can’t even be sure it started when I met her. Maybe it stuck in my mind when I was working my way into Omni Biomedical’s systems? Or looking at her files in the weeks before I was allowed to interact with ‘the subject’?
She finally looks at me, really looks as if she’s searching for something lying beneath the surface of my skin. As if she’s trying to see the core of who I am, see past whatever facade she believes I’m putting on.
“No, it’s just… strange.”
I wait for her to add something, anything, to fill the void her voice has left, but she doesn’t. She lets the silence stretch between us. She must be comfortable with prolonged moments without speaking.
She’d probably get along well with Silas.
I turn away from her to gather some supplies from the medical box we keep under the sink. I know her cuts will heal fine on their own in a matter of days, but I also know I would feel better if she was disinfected before starting to heal.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” I’m somewhat surprised she follows me up the stairs without comment or argument, despite the look of suspicion lingering on her face.
She sits herself next to me on my bed, her spine ramrod straight. Her perfect posture is only altered by the way she continues to cradle her arm against her chest.
Her stillness, matched with the silence of the room, heightens everything else. I feel like I’m on high alert, but not from any threat. Every detail of her is screaming at me to be noticed, even the steadiness of her breathing. Even the smell of the disinfectant is stronger right now, the scent permeating the air as soon as I break the seal on the bottle of alcohol.
“I’m going to clean your left arm first, so you won’t need to stop bracing your wrist yet. I’ll be as fast as I can.” She nods and turns her body slightly, angling so I have better access to her skin.
She’s covered in cuts, each one packed with grime from the forest. Anyone else would get an infection from all of this but she should be fine. Fortunately, most of her cuts are superficial, barely more than a scrape, but the sheer number makes my heart drop.
I make quick work of one arm, then move to dab at the cuts on the other, allowing her to flinch away or adjust if she needs to. I also narrate when I’m going to touch her, and where, giving her as much warning as she might need before making any contact.
I’ve taken my time cleaning both of her arms, too much time, honestly. I don’t want to finish, don’t want to move away from her. My extremely diligent attention to her arms might also be because of where I have to go next. I scan her bare legs, noting just how many cuts I’ll have to clean, just how careful I’ll have to be to make sure my gaze doesn’t linger anywhere it shouldn’t. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, and I can’t bear to push her any further away.
“I should get the cuts on your legs too.” I’m proud I don’t let my apprehension leech into my voice. I sounded certain, calm, at least to my own ears.
“Go for it.” She knows that’s where the majority of her cuts are, and she doesn’t seem to be hesitant to let me touch her legs.
My knees protest when they hit the hard floor. I’m moving too quickly, my hands shaking as I inch closer to Mads. I’m doing my best to ignore it, to shove away the nerves, but now I’m seated directly in front of the source of it all. Staring at a gash on her inner thigh, just an inch from the bottom of Silas’ shirt.
Pull it together, you’re going to freak her out.
I noticed the cut before. I had to have, but at this angle, it’s intimidating. Not for any logical reason. No, I’m just sitting here, confronted with the fact that this beautiful woman has incredible legs which lead up to what I can only assume is a desert oasis based on the sudden thirst I’m feeling.
Why the hell am I acting like this?