Page 50 of Her Wicked Knights (Their Hallowed Queen #3)

Marley

There are high points and low points in life, and all you can do is keep moving forward, whether trudging uphill, sliding down nearly out of control, or marching forward. But this low? This low is so low I'm not sure I can climb back up.

My heart is hollow, like a figurine that's been knocked off the shelf so many times and pieced back together without all the pieces, less and less each time so that everything slips right through. I'm paranoid, I'm exhausted, I'm fucking broken.

Losing my parents was tragic, and it was my first real taste of grief.

I had my fill of it, but then everything happened, and Audrey died, and it was like being force-fed more grief.

And then I was forced out of town, leaving me choking on the grief of losing everything, everyone.

My best friends stood by me every step of the way, stepping back to let Audrey in when she arrived.

I worried for a bit that we were growing apart, but in Audrey's absence, they came back to give me everything I needed.

Maybe I'm a fool for thinking it may have turned into something more if I stayed.

Maybe I'm wrong for craving that physical connection that I had with them right before I left.

Maybe if I'd stayed, nothing would have changed between us; maybe we would have drifted apart eventually.

I never planned to leave the town I was born and raised in, but that choice was taken away from me.

The only thing I could do was stay reasonably close so that I could feel them, so that I know they're just out there, that maybe one day I can go home, and all of this hell will be over.

But even if going back didn't risk Hadley's life, I couldn't return now.

Not when I'm broke and broken. I'm so fucking broken.

Sleep is as distant a memory as my life before that night, despite having enough prescriptions in my medicine cabinet to make people think I am certifiably insane.

I've tried therapists, psychiatrists, grief counselors.

.. each of them had their own recommendations.

Eat better, give up caffeine, take these pills, keep a journal, start a workout routine, oh that pill didn't work for you? Then try this one instead.

It's fucking exhausting all on its own, and I feel like a lab rat being experimented on. It's what brought me here, to this office building to try again.

I don't know why I'm even bothering, since this hasn't worked out any of the other times.

Maybe because it's my only option if I want to live.

Maybe because I want to exhaust my options before I let myself contemplate whether I even want to live without everyone and everything that made my life worth living.

The lobby is empty when I open the door into the medical building, which is eerie, but not exactly weird.

It's a Monday after closing, technically, but I'm hoping to catch the doctor before he heads out and get on his books as soon as possible.

I tried calling, but I lost my nerve. The staff may have started to leave from the other doctor's offices in this building, but clearly someone is still here, or else the front door would have been locked.

I follow the signs to floor five and take the first door on the left, relieved when I try to open it and it gives.

The front desk is empty, but the lights are still on, which I'm taking as a sign that the whole staff hasn't left yet. Maybe the doctor is still finishing up some notes.

"Hello?" I call, moving toward the hallway behind the desk, scanning the empty room like someone will suddenly materialize and tell me I can't go back there. But no one does, and as I pass the empty reception desk, I see a purse on the chair. So, someone's still here.

"Doctor Whittier? Hello?"

There are only three doors in the hallway.

One appears to be a bathroom, so I move to the next one, hesitating when I place my hand over the doorknob.

What if he's still in there with a patient?

What if I walk in in the middle of a session and the doctor gets so pissed that he refuses to work with me? He may very well be my last hope.

But if he's my last hope, I'm already doomed.

And I'm already here.

I knock once, a polite warning of the intrusion to come, and then open the door to step inside.

The doctor isn't in the middle of a session, it turns out.

He's actually sitting at his desk in a large, executive leather chair, with his hands gripping the arm rests as he leans back, his eyes closed so that he hasn't spotted me.

And he wouldn't have, if I could contain the surprised gasp that slips out of my throat when I spot the woman beneath the desk, her platinum blonde hair tucked back with a pin and her hands braced on his thighs. .. his naked thighs.

Oh, fucking hell.

His eyes snap open and lock on mine as his mouth falls open, a soft groan of approval clawing through.

It's weird. It's fucked up. It's wrong on so many levels, but his gaze seems to hold me hostage for a minute, unable to look away or close my eyes.

He doesn't say anything or make an effort to stop the woman sucking his dick, and she doesn't stop moving, bobbing forward and backward even as I stand behind her, horrified by my own intrusion.

His green eyes bore into me, snaring me in his gaze, and something like fire spreads along my spine.

I'm humiliated, desperate, and now... aroused? What the fuck is wrong with me?

You were coming here to have him figure that out, a voice in my head reminds me.

That voice in my head taunts me all the time.

It's not my conscience, though, not a moral compass.

It's my best friend... or at least, it's her voice saying things that my mind is thinking in some dark recesses.

It's probably brought on by survivor's guilt or something; either way, it's enough to bring me back to the reality of standing in this doctor's office, watching him get head from who I can only assume is his secretary.

She hasn't stopped, entirely unbothered by my presence.

I close my eyes, too mortified to move, frozen in place as I feel my cheeks heating. It takes half a second too long to get my body to move, and I raise my hand to shield them as I turn.

"I'm so sorry." I move toward the exit like my ass is on fire, but his voice stops me.

"Wait!"

I do, but I don't turn back to look at him. I can't. I feel slippery, exposed even though I'm not the one with my pants down.

I hear a thump and then he groans and there's no mistaking that he's coming.

He's fucking coming right behind me. there's no way he can treat me after this.

I don't think I'll ever be able to look this man in the eye again after this, let alone tell him the reason I came here is because I let some guy I barely knew finger fuck me in a haunted house which allowed for my best friend to be murdered.

I don't know why I wait. Because he told me to?

Because I'm a good girl who always does what she's told?

Because I know that I'm running out of chances to turn things around, that I'm running out of patience with myself.

I can't go home and risk my sister's life, but I can't stay away and continue to suffer alone.

I've been alone for the first time in my entire life this past year and a half, and it's been horrible.

I've put on a brave face for Hadley's face times, but I still haven't told her where I am, because I can't risk her coming to see me and realizing that I'm fucking falling apart.

She'd drag me back home kicking and screaming, and then they'd kill her, too.

And if they take her, I'll lose the last remnants of sanity I've been clinging so hard to.

"Thank you, Lorna." Dr. Whittier says.

A moment later, the woman I assume is Lora steps beside me, gently edging me out of the way as she lets herself out.

She doesn't try to catch my eye, doesn't give me a filthy glare, doesn't apologize for not shutting the damn door.

She just lets herself out quietly, her fingers tracing her lips to try and clear away her smudged lipstick.

"Please," Dr. Whittier says, "take a seat."

Take a seat? And pretend I didn't witness the most unprofessional thing in the world? I don't care what he does in his own office of who he does it with, but I can't sit on his couch and see him as qualified to fix me after witnessing that? Can I?

"I... I'm sorry. I shouldn't have walked in."

"No need to apologize. You clearly needed something. How can I help you?"

You can't.

"I don't know that we can..." I still haven't turned to face him. I'm talking to a wall, to his framed degrees from Stanford.

"Ah." Dr. Whittier chuckles, and the sound is close enough to make me turn to seek him out.

He's standing just a few feet away with his hands in the pockets of his now-zipped-up slacks.

And fuck if he isn't attractive. It's no wonder his secretary was happy to get on her knees for him- he's got a power about his persona that's almost uncomfortable.

And at the same time, something about him is magnetic. "That's why you're here, huh?"

"What?" I don't think I said anything. "What's why I'm here?"

"Complex feelings around sexuality... probably rooted in a trauma of sorts. But I'm guessing that's just the tip of the iceberg."

I feel judged, which I'm pretty sure is not what your therapist is supposed to do. But he's not wrong. In fact, his snap assessment of me based on two seconds of eye contact is scary accurate.

I cross my arms, but don't bother trying to deny him, which he must take as a small win, because he grins and gestures toward the couch.

"You came here for my help. Let me help you."