Page 83 of Savage Hearts

“I’m not lucid enough to unravel that logic.”

Ignoring that, he turns to go. “I’ll be right outside the door if you need me.”

I lean on the edge of the sink, staring in confusion at the closeddoor, until I decide I’d better sit down before I topple over. Moving carefully, I creep to the toilet.

“Are you all right?” Through the door, his voice sounds sharp.

“Until you hear a loud thump, assume I’m fine.”

“I thought I did hear a loud thump.”

“That was just the sound of all the hope leaving my body.”

It’s not until I finish using the toilet and look at myself in the mirror above the sink that I realize the underwear and long black sleep shirt I’m wearing aren’t mine.

All the ramifications of what that means are pushed aside by the sheer horror of seeing my reflection in the mirror.

Even without my glasses, I can see that I look like Death. Like the literal, physical embodiment of Death.

I’m pale as chalk. My eyes are red and sunken. My lips are chapped, and my hair is a nest of snarls where rodents have obviously been fighting.

I’ve lost weight, too. Maybe ten pounds. My clavicle bones stick out like a skeleton’s.

In disbelief, I touch my cheek, then my hair.

Then, overwhelmed by the reality of my situation, I start crying. I crumple against the sink and break into sobs so loud, I don’t hear it when Mal bursts through the door.

Without a word, he takes me in his arms and holds me against his chest as I weep.

No, that sounds too delicate for what I’m doing. This is a breakdown. A full-body event complete with blubbering and bawling, howling and wailing, shaking and quaking and lots of snot.

Mal remains silent during it all. He simply holds me. It’s the only reason I don’t fall to my knees.

When the loudest wails have tapered and I’m a hiccupping, red-faced mess, he releases me long enough to turn to the counter and grab a tissue. He holds it against my face and tells me to blow, like I’m a five-year-old with a head cold.

It’s surprisingly soothing.

I blow into the tissue. He wipes my nose, tosses that tissue into the trash, gets another one, and wipes the tears from my cheeks. He picks me up in his arms and heads back to the bedroom.

My head resting against his chest and my eyes closed, I whisper, “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“You don’t have to. All you have to do is heal,malyutka. And that will take time.”

Hearing his nickname for me makes me teary again, but I sniffle and squeeze my eyes shut so the tears don’t come out.

I grimace in pain when he lowers me to the bed but don’t make a sound. He adjusts the pillow behind my head.

“I need to check your sutures. I’m going to pull your nightgown up.”

I don’t bother protesting. I know he won’t listen to a word I say. Besides, I don’t have the energy. Mal as my caregiver is just one more mindfuck my poor brain has to wrestle with. All my energy is going into not having a mental break with reality.

With gentle hands, he pulls up the sleep shirt and lightly probes around my belly while I wince and grit my teeth.

“There’s no sign of infection around the sutures,” he says quietly. “And your abdomen isn’t hard, which is good. I’ll change the dressing, then get you your meds.”

“Meds?”

“Pain medicine. Antibiotics.”