Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 631(@200wpm)___ 505(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
That phantom itch on my hip flares and I decide to fuck it. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
I swallow. “You saved Annie.”
“From what?”
“From the needle.”
“I didn’t know I was doing that.”
I swallow again. “Well, you did. She didn’t need that. To be sedated like an animal.”
The itch on my hip increases and I tighten my hold on the book to stop from scratching it in front of him.
“Is that why you were so upset back there?” he asks.
“If I tell you, will you use it against me?”
He rolls back on his feet, his lips stretching in a lopsided smile. “Is that what you think I do? Use information against my patients?”
“How do I know what you do?” I shrug. “But yes, that’s what I think.”
Dr. Blackwood takes his hand out of his pocket and scratches his jaw. “You’ve met some fucked-up doctors, haven’t you?” Sighing, he says, “No. I won’t use it against you, Willow.”
It’s great that he said that. I would appreciate it more if I wasn’t focused on his hand. The one he’s just used to scratch his stubble.
Before I can think about it, I reach out and grab hold of it. His large palm has multiple cuts around the pads of his fingers. One of them is covered in a band-aid. I’m guessing that the cut underneath must be bigger than the others that have been left open.
“What happened?” I gently trace the dark red scratches with my thumb.
God, his hand is so big, large and so fucking warm. My thumb stops moving when I realize that I’m touching him.
I’m touching the ice king.
The heat of his hands. The thrum of his blood. Maybe even his healing power.
I feel his breath, long and hard, almost stirring my bangs, and filling my lungs with his rainy smell. Just as I glance at him, he takes his hand away and puts it back in his pocket. I catch the tail end of his jaw clenching and his nostrils flaring.
“I-I… I was…” I fumble and clutch my book. “What happened to your hand? It looked pretty bad.”
“It was an accident.” After a pause, he says, “I was fixing the stairs.”
“Of your house?”
Another clench of his jaw covered with five o’clock shadow. “Yeah. I just don’t live there anymore.”
It’s very strange but in this moment, I know exactly what he’s feeling.
I know he didn’t like the question, as innocent and without motive as it was. I know that he didn’t want to answer it. I know the reluctance and tightness he felt. It’s similar to when we were talking about his dad, only I was too nervous and stubborn to really appreciate the similarities of our feelings.
Because there are similarities. I’ve felt the same things.
Only I never thought I’d find someone to share them with and he’d turn out to be the man from the other side of the line.
Sighing, I tell him, “I scared my mom.”
He frowns. “When?”
“The day I woke up in the hospital,” I whisper, feeling choked up and all alone. “I was so pissed and tired and so scared. I told them… a-about what happened. And they started saying I needed help. Consultations and meds and my mom wouldn’t stop crying. I got freaked out. I got…”
My eyes fill with tears. “Everybody was talking at once. They were like, talking and talking and telling me to calm down but they just wouldn’t get away from me and… It came out of nowhere. The needle. And then, I just felt a little sting and everything went black. I’d only seen it on TV, you know. Like on all those medical shows. They stab you with a needle when you’re either dying or acting crazy. I was just trying to make them listen.” Sniffling, I wipe my tears. “Tell them that I wasn’t crazy.”
The restlessness that has been building up all day lessens as I tell him this. How can something that goes against my nature – talking – make me feel at ease?
It occurs to me, then. Maybe it’s talking to him.
This man who’s frowning so hard as he looks down at me. Who’s making my heart beat faster and faster with each passing second.
“Do you remember what I told you about the word crazy?” he asks in a low voice.
It’s so low and rough that I have to go on my tiptoes to listen to it.
“It’s a useless word,” I reply, almost like a child, but his authority, his largeness is doing something to me.
“Yeah. Don’t forget that.”
I bite my lip and his gaze drops to the action before moving away. Quickly. But not quick enough because I felt something exploding on my skin.
Sparks and thunders.
“Thank you for saving her,” I say, shrugging; I need him to know that.
That I’m thankful.
“I didn’t save her.”