4. Ghost Sensations
Chapter four
Ghost Sensations
Directly above my head, the master bedroom ceiling remained perfectly quiet. Simon was asleep. I had spent the last hour holding my breath, terrified he would come downstairs for a glass of water before the drop-off.
The midnight silence of the house broke with a faint metallic click from the back terrace door.
I dropped the phone into my lap. The glass panel slid open on its tracks, letting a sudden hiss of freezing night air breach the stale, artificial warmth of the living room.
A broad-shouldered shadow stepped over the threshold. Owen pulled the glass shut behind him and slid the deadbolt into the frame. He wore a dark jacket and carried a canvas medical bag slung across his chest. He moved across the room, his boots making no sound until he reached the edge of the rug.
Seeing him materialize in my house—risking a literal breaking-and-entering charge just to help me—pulled a ragged, uneven breath from my chest. For the last six months, Simon had isolated me entirely, twisting my reality until I believed my own body was a natural prison.
Now, seeing another living breathing person standing in my living room, I felt the suffocating loneliness finally break. “You really came,” I whispered, the words barely audible over the hum of the kitchen refrigerator. Just having him in the room slowed my racing pulse.
I pointed a shaking finger toward the kitchen archway. “It’s in the refrigerator. Bottom shelf, hidden behind the crisper.”
Owen gave a curt nod. He crossed the living room in three silent strides, opened the fridge, and retrieved the chilled steel thermos. Watching him hold the physical evidence brought a sharp, painful lump to the back of my throat. He had the poison now.
He gripped the top of the cylinder and twisted.
The cap popped off. Instantly, a sour waft of decaying kale and rotten apple drifted into the space between us.
Owen flinched, his hazel eyes narrowing in disgust at the unnaturally thick sludge.
He screwed the lid back on tight and shoved the container deep into his canvas bag, sealing the zipper shut.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cheap plastic burner phone, holding it out to me. “Use this to contact me from now on. He’s likely tracking your primary device,” he instructed quietly. I slipped it into my pocket.
“Did he see you dump it?” Owen whispered, his voice swallowed by the ambient drone of the kitchen.
“No,” I breathed back, staring up at his face in the dim light. “He turned his back to get his briefcase. I poured out enough to make the glass look empty.”
Owen studied my posture. He didn’t offer a patronizing smile or a gentle pat on the shoulder. He looked at me with clinical, demanding focus.
“Good. I’ll take this straight to my lab guy when we’re done here.” He unbuckled the strap of his medical bag, dropping it onto the floorboards. “Now, let’s get you out of the chair. We need to start waking up your nerve endings.”
The dread of the looming pain brought a cold prickle of sweat to my hairline. Waking up deadened tissue meant stripping away the chemical numbness. I inhaled deeply, bracing my weak spine against the backrest.
“Just do whatever you have to do,” I told him. “I won’t make a sound.”
Owen didn’t hesitate. He stepped to the side of my chair, sliding one arm behind my shoulders and the other under my knees.
He lifted my weight with steady, effortless control.
For a split second, I was suspended in the chill of the living room, completely reliant on his physical strength.
He lowered me slowly, bypassing the plush rug to deposit me directly onto the unforgiving hardwood floor.
The rigid boards pressed hard against my spine.
Owen crouched beside me, unzipping the secondary pocket of his medical bag. The sharp, sterile scent of rubbing alcohol flooded the narrow space between us, burning the back of my nose.
He reached down, gathering the thick folds of my loungewear, and pushed the fabric up past my knees.
My exposed skin was pale, and the muscles had visibly wasted away.
Without a word of warning, Owen pressed his calloused palms directly into my atrophied calves and dug his thumbs into the deadened tissue.
He began to forcefully knead the muscles.
The reaction was instantaneous. A blinding, searing flare of agony shot up my shins. It wasn’t the dull ache of a heavy workout; it was a brutal, electric shockwave radiating from the intense pressure. I let out a sharp, ragged intake of breath, the sound quickly turning into a muffled hiss.
I threw my empty hands outward, burying my fingernails into the abrasive fibers of the wool rug to anchor myself. I bit down hard on my bottom lip, grinding my teeth together so tightly my jaw ached. I refused to let the scream escape my throat. Simon was sleeping right above us.
But beneath the physical shock, a strange, rapid heat flushed the back of my neck.
For six months, my husband had kept me trapped in a painless, drug-induced haze, convincing me my body was naturally failing.
This brutal pain proved he was wrong. The pain meant my muscles weren’t permanently ruined.
I focused entirely on the horrific burning in my calves, using the agony to block out the memory of Simon’s fake, pitying smiles.
Owen didn’t pause to offer pity. He shifted his grip, grabbed my ankles, and aggressively bent my knees toward my chest, forcing the dormant tendons to stretch. The sudden tension made my entire lower body tremble.
“Breathe through it, Audrey,” Owen whispered, his voice a low, steady rumble over the quiet hum of the house. “Don’t fight the stretch. The sedatives suppressed your nervous system, but the damage isn’t permanent yet.”
Sweat beaded on my forehead. I stared at the shadowed ceiling, forcing the words through my clenched teeth. “It hurts so badly. How long until I can actually bear weight on them?”
Owen kept his hands firmly clamped around my shins, maintaining the severe angle. “A few days. Your muscle tone is responding, but we can’t rush it or you’ll tear a ligament. Trust my pace.”
The intense, clinical focus in his hazel eyes made me realize he was the only person in the world treating me like a capable adult. He demanded physical resilience instead of offering fake sympathy.
I loosened my rigid grip on the rug. “I trust you. Keep going.”
Owen shifted his knees over the floorboards, maneuvering down to the base of my feet.
He maintained a rigid posture in the dim room.
He reached out and pressed his broad, calloused hands flat against the bare soles of my feet.
The rough, abrasive texture of his skin sent a bizarre ghost-sensation up my deadened calves, a sudden warmth against the cold draft blowing down from the ceiling fan.
“Lock your ankles,” Owen murmured, leaning his torso forward to create a physical barricade. “Now extend your legs.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and braced my core, trying to force my legs to straighten. I stared at my own knees, willing them to move. A pathetic, agonizingly weak twitch fluttered through my upper thighs. I pushed against him, but it felt like trying to move a boulder underwater.
“Push, Audrey. Don’t let your knees cave. Give me five more seconds.”
My jaw locked. I bit the inside of my cheek and forced myself to focus entirely on my legs.
My thighs began to quiver. It started as a subtle vibration beneath the bunched-up cashmere fabric, and then quickly worsened into violent, uncontrollable spasms. I strained, my face flushing with trapped heat, but I couldn’t move his hands a single millimeter. He remained an immovable wall.
I stared at my useless legs, the full extent of the damage finally sinking in. I wasn’t just weak; I was ruined. My throat tightened with humiliating frustration. He really had hollowed out my body. I couldn’t even defend myself in my own living room. The muscles simply refused to fire.
“I can’t,” I gasped, the words catching in my dry throat. “There’s nothing left. The muscles are completely shot.”
Owen didn’t soften his grip. He didn’t offer a soothing platitude, and he certainly didn’t look at me with the sickening pity Simon used against me daily. His hazel eyes narrowed, catching the faint ambient glow spilling from the kitchen.
“There is something left,” he countered, his tone blunt and demanding. “You’re angry. Use it. Push against my hands right now.”
The command struck a raw, exposed nerve.
He was right. Beneath the humiliating physical failure burned a spiteful, acidic hatred for my husband.
I pictured Simon’s manicured hands running the blender.
I pictured him adjusting my blanket in the restaurant, preening for our clients while I sat trapped in that canvas and metal cage.
I let the suffocating rage take over, channeling the anger into the dead weight of my legs.
“Okay,” I gritted out through clenched teeth. “Okay, I’ve got it. I’m pushing.”
I anchored my hips against the unforgiving hardwood and shoved. For three agonizing seconds, my legs locked rigid. I held his weight, bearing the intense strain as my joints popped and my tendons stretched to their absolute limit.
The quivering spread to my chest. Then, the muscles simply gave out, my legs collapsing like dead weight to the floor.
I fell flat onto my back, staring at the ceiling fan as I sucked in greedy, ragged lungfuls of air.
I dragged the back of my hand across my forehead, smearing the slick sweat into my hairline.
A sharp, groaning creak echoed from the ceiling joists directly above my face.
I froze. Owen’s head snapped up.
The muffled, rhythmic thud of bare feet sounded against the master bedroom floorboards.
Simon was awake. The footsteps moved steadily across the ceiling, heading toward the top of the main staircase.
Owen pressed a flat hand firmly against my shoulder, pinning me to the floor to ensure I didn’t make a single sound.
I held my breath until my chest ached, listening to the heavy silence of the house.
“He’s coming down,” Owen whispered, pulling his hand back. “I’m going out through the terrace.”
My throat pulled painfully tight. If Simon walked downstairs and found Owen manipulating my legs on the rug, the entire plan was dead. He would force the transfer immediately. I was trapped on the hardwood, unable to stand, my survival resting on Owen’s speed.
“Get out. Hurry,” I hissed, pushing myself up onto my elbows. “Take the bag.”
Owen didn’t waste a millisecond. His rubber soles squeaked sharply against the wood as he snatched his canvas medical bag by the strap. He slung it over his chest and ducked down beside me. Hooking his arms under my knees and back, he heaved my body off the floor.
He crossed the rug in two massive strides and dumped me onto the living room sofa. The rough upholstery scraped against my bare, slick thighs as I hit the cushions. I dug my fingernails into the fabric, desperately trying to force my legs to stop shaking.
“Pull the blanket over your legs so he doesn’t see the sweat,” Owen ordered quietly. He grabbed the heavy knit throw from the armrest and tossed it over my lower half. “Act half-asleep.”
The thick fabric smothered my legs, trapping the damp heat of my flushed skin. Owen backed away, his eyes locked on the dark archway of the hall. He reached the glass terrace door, his hand gripping the brass deadbolt.
“Go,” I muttered, burying my hands under the blanket so Simon wouldn’t see my white-knuckled grip. “I’ll handle him.”
Owen pulled the latch, slipping out into the night air.
The glass slid shut behind him with a faint metallic click just as a floorboard groaned on the bottom step of the main staircase.
I threw my arm over my forehead to shield my face from the impending light.
I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting to slow my ragged breathing until it mimicked a deep, drugged sleep.
A bank of recessed ceiling bulbs flared to life, flooding the living room with blinding, sterile light.
I kept my forearm firmly clamped over my eyes, wincing as if the sudden brightness caused me actual pain.
In reality, I was desperately trying to hide my erratic breathing.
My dormant calves still throbbed with the abrasive burn of the physical therapy, and a faint, freezing draft still clung to the floorboards from the terrace door Owen had just secured.
Footsteps padded across the hardwood. The faint clink of an empty crystal glass echoed through the sudden quiet.
“Audrey?” Simon’s voice cut through the room, laced with suspicion. “What the hell are you doing down here in the dark?”
I forced my tense body to go entirely limp against the sofa cushions. The sticky, damp trail of sweat slid down the nape of my neck, pooling into the collar of my cashmere sweater. I swallowed hard, but my throat was simply too dry. Slowly, I lowered my arm just enough to squint up at him.
Simon stood at the edge of the rug, wearing his pristine silk pajamas.
His eyes darted from the empty wheelchair parked near the coffee table and then settled on my limp body on the cushions.
He stepped closer. A stinging waft of peppermint toothpaste washed over me, completely overpowering the faint scent of Owen’s rubbing alcohol.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I mumbled, deliberately slurring my words to fake a narcotic haze. “My legs were aching, so I just came out here to look out the window.”
He stopped right beside the sofa, towering over me. “You shouldn’t be out of bed without me. You could have fallen out of the chair.”
He set down the empty glass and braced his hands on the armrest, leaning down until his face hovered mere inches from mine.
The proximity made my pulse hammer in my neck.
I held perfectly still, terrified he would notice how flushed my face was.
If he realized I was out of breath from standing on my own two feet, his trap would snap shut tonight.
I let my eyes slide shut, acting as though just keeping them open was too much effort.
“I know,” I whispered, turning my cheek into the rough fabric of the cushion. “I’m sorry. I just feel so out of it tonight.”
Simon studied my face for a long, agonizing moment. Slowly, the rigid tension left his shoulders. He completely missed the sweat on my temples; he only saw exactly what he expected to see—a pathetic, broken woman. He reached out, tracing his thumb over my cheekbone in a condescending stroke.
“Let’s get you back upstairs,” he murmured, his shadow falling over my face. “You need to get back to sleep.”