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SADIE

Night Ten

I lay in bed, staring at the vaulted ceiling, my fingers grazing the hemline of my panties. I have two pillows positioned on top of my thighs, and the thickest blanket strewn across my chest.

Shutting my eyes, I envision the first day Dr. Weiss was at my side when I awoke. Instead of serving me that cup of coffee, he demands that I sit in his lap so he can serve me his cock instead.

I slide onto him inch by inch as he teases my nipples with his tongue, as he harshly whispers how good my pussy feels on his cock. I’m on the edge of him being completely inside me, on the edge of feeling a pleasure that I?—

Glass shatters in the kitchen, instantly snapping me out of my fantasy.

“Fuck!” Dr. Weiss growls amidst more shattering, and my eyes flutter open.

When did he get back from his office?

I slip out of bed.

Shirtless, he’s standing at the kitchen sink, holding a bloody left hand under running water.

There’s too much blood for it to come from the shards of a drinking glass.

“Come on…” he hisses. “Come the fuck on…”

I watch as he waits for the blood to clot, but the water pressure does little to stop it from oozing.

A jolt of worry hits me, sharp and unwelcome. He’s hurt. Badly. And he’s pretending it’s nothing.

“You’re making it worse,” I whisper. “It’s not a surface cut.”

He looks over his shoulder at me, and I spot an additional cut on his upper arm.

“Our next session isn’t until the morning, Miss Pretty,” he says flatly. “You may hear noises from time to time.”

His recited words for the cameras can’t hide the agony on his face.

“It’s a muscle wound,” I say, swallowing. “You need a tourniquet.”

“Only one of us is a doctor, Miss Pretty.” The blood is oozing even faster now. “I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

Ignoring his words, I rush to my room and tear off my pillowcase. Spinning it into a strip, I return to his side.

“Please let me help you,” I say. “Turn off the water.”

He hesitates for a few seconds before obliging. Then I wrap the fabric above his wound, tying it tightly.

As I secure the knot, he stiffens, but then relaxes as the blood slows to a trickle, then stops completely.

He stares at the tourniquet, then at me.

“I got attacked in the shower a few times with a sock full of batteries,” I say softly. “A lifer taught me how to handle those cuts.”

“I don’t recall seeing any of that in your files.” He looks concerned. “Why didn’t you tell the staff?”

“Who do you think let it happen in the first place?”

Silence.

I glance at the other wound on his arm. It’s not as deep, but it’s open and needs to be covered.

“I can suture that up for you, if you don’t want to leave for the hospital.”

“I’ve already told you I won’t be leaving again,” he says. “The nurse who sees you in the morning will probably look at it.”

His words— again —don’t match his actions.

He steps closer, eliminating the small gap between us.

“There’s a first-aid kit in my bathroom.”

“Would you like me to get it, or wait here until you get it?”

“We can both get it.” He’s staring at me intently, and I’m trying to decipher the look in his eyes, but I can’t.

He swallows hard and abruptly steps away, heading to his side of the cabin.

Then he looks over his shoulder. “You’re coming, correct?”