Chapter 51 Lucy & Nitro #2
Nervous energy coursed through me with no outlet to relieve it now.
I wanted to pull out the knife and wood, wanted to keep carving so I wouldn’t lose my mind, but I didn’t.
According to Xander, the knife I’d plunged into the waiting room chair had almost put the hospital into lockdown after being discovered.
I was still pissed I hadn’t retrieved it, but I’d bolted soon after Asher left, desperately needing to get fresh air, and forgotten all about it.
I’d never, not in my entire fucking life, forgotten one of my blades.
I watched the doctor's hands as he examined Lucy's wound—the expertly stitched injury that was a constant reminder of how I'd failed to protect her. No, worse than that, it was a reminder of how she’d tried to protect me. Me! I still couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t wrap my head around it.
How stupid would a person have to be to nearly die trying to save their abuser?
The scar would be permanent, another mark alongside those left by years of medical intervention. Only, this one wasn’t a result of sickness. This one was on me. On all of us who should have kept her safe.
I found myself watching Lucy's face—the subtle tightening around her eyes, the way she swallowed hard after each recommendation, the practiced smile that never quite reached those gold-flecked green eyes.
When the doc said something about a wound vac, I clenched my jaw, the muscle there twitching as I struggled to maintain my composure. He better fix Lucy, and he better not cause her more pain in the damn process.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. Probably one of my brothers asking for another update.
I ignored it, eyes locked on our Omega’s face again.
Her eyes were glistening. She was blinking rapidly.
Fuck. If she cried, I was going to lose it.
To think I would have relished her tears weeks ago. Now, they terrified me.
Lucy pulled the gown back down. I watched the scar disappear beneath the flowered material and I felt relieved. Having that failure in my face was torture.
"I'm glad the fever broke quickly," the doctor said, his voice warm, yet professionally distant. "You're stronger than you look, Miss Graves."
Lucy's smile faltered. I wondered if his words were a compliment in her eyes, or just another reminder of how the world perceived her as fragile.
That’s how I’d seen her at first. Not anymore.
"I've been through worse," Lucy finally shrugged, her voice steady.
The doctor's eyebrows rose slightly. "Worse than a flagpole through your stomach?"
His skepticism was clear, and it fucking annoyed me. This Beta had no idea what she'd endured.
"You'd be surprised," she answered, offering no explanation.
The doctor nodded, not prying further. "Well, whatever you've been through before now, you're healing nicely."
I couldn't take it anymore. The restraint I'd been exercising snapped, and I stood abruptly. In two long strides, I was at her bedside. The doctor took an instinctive step back.
"Can she get out of here soon then, Doc?" I asked, though my tone made it clear it wasn't really a question but a demand. My voice came out rough, nearly cracking at the edges.
The doctor blinked rapidly, his focus shifting from Lucy to me. He took in my height, my build, and the intensity radiating like heat off my body. The recognition in his gaze was swift. I was an Alpha in protection mode, and it wasn’t smart to stand between me and my Omega’s wellbeing.
"I think Miss Graves could use a few more days," he replied, his tone carefully neutral but firm. This Beta had a backbone.
Disappointment crashed through me, making my shoulders slump and my mouth downturn.
I tried to recover quickly, standing tall and nodding like I agreed with the surgeon.
I wasn't trying to rush Lucy before she was ready, but I needed her away from this place. I needed her back home—where the bullshit bedroom was now transformed into something beautiful. I wanted her to see the king size bed and the soft comforter. I wanted to see the kind of life we’d give her in the future.
By now, my brothers and I knew every detail of Lucy’s past. Every hospital.
Every drug. Every surgery. Every time she’d almost died.
We'd read the documents her parents signed, giving Lucy over to Omega Protection Services. We’d read her blog, pouring over the forced cheerfulness there as she tried to give other sick people hope.
Knowing Lucy on paper wasn’t the same as knowing her in person.
She wasn’t a diagnosis.
When the doctor finally left, I returned to my chair and pulled out the small piece of wood and my knife, resuming my carving with careful, measured strokes.
The repetitive motion gave my hands something to do besides punch walls or gather Lucy into my arms and simply run.
As I moved the blade, tip creating a new channel, the image of Lucy on the gurney, flagpole sticking out of her small body, rushed through my mind. It’s a sight I’d never forget.
"You shouldn't have gone in there," I said quietly, mostly to myself.
“What?” Lucy’s sweet voice floated to me.
I glanced up, finding her stunning eyes staring right at me.
I swallowed, deciding if I wanted to repeat myself. I’d sounded sullen and ungrateful, whispering under my breath.
“I said you shouldn’t have gone in after me, Lucy.” I spoke clearly. I meant every word.
She gave me a strange look.
“It’s easy to take risks when dying myself isn’t scary. But—” Lucy drew in a breath and rushed her remaining words out as if she was scared to say them— “you dying does scare me. Any of you dying terrifies me.”
Her words hurt and healed me simultaneously.