Scythe & Sparrow (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #3)(21)
“Rose?” I knock on the door, and the volley of vitriol stops immediately. “Are you all right in there?”
There’s a long pause. “Yeah …?”
“You sure?”
“No …?”
“Can I come in?”
Another pause. I hear water lapping at the edges of the tub and then the rustling of fabric. “Okay …”
When I open the door, Rose is sitting on the edge of the tub in a robe, her crutches discarded on the floor, her brace resting on the counter next to the sink. Water glistens on her chest and her good leg, but her injured one is dry except for the edges of the wound dressing where its pulled back at one corner.
“What’s going on?” I ask as I set my glass and the bottle down next to her brace. Rose’s cheeks flush with a crimson glow and she looks toward the floor. My heart cracks a little when she meets my gaze but only briefly, like she can’t bear to hold it.
“You told me to take the bandage off today,” she says, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. Even when she’s exhausted, her words normally have a sharp edge or a teasing warmth. “It’s harder than I thought it would be.”
“That’s okay. I can help. That’s why you’re here. Remember?” She gives me an encouraging smile, and for a moment, I forget what I nearly did tonight. I crouch in front of her, patting my knee for her to rest her ankle on. She does, gingerly, and I rub my hands together to warm them, an action that causes a flicker of a crease between her brows as she watches. “Does it hurt?”
Rose shrugs and looks away, a hard swallow shifting in the column of her throat. “A bit.”
“It’s okay if this stuff bothers you.”
“It doesn’t,” she says firmly, though it’s not entirely convincing and she knows it. With a resigned sigh, she says, “The bone sticking out was just a bit … much. It’s hard to forget.”
“That’s understandable.” I tug a little at the edge of the adhesive tape and she hisses as it pulls the hairs that have grown beneath it.
“The fur is really adding to the experience for me.”
I snort. “What?”
“Look.” She plunks her other foot on my knee to compare the difference between her freshly shaven skin still glowing from the hot water and the leg she hasn’t touched, the fine dark hairs glinting in the dim light. She points to her swollen leg, the marks of the brace still imprinted on her flesh. “Fur.”
I nearly say something stupid, like I like carpet, or Fur is hot, or probably fifty other dumbass options that suddenly cancel out anything professional or, God forbid, clever. I clear my throat and try to focus on the bandage, lifting one edge enough to check that the stitches haven’t stuck to the surface of the gauze.
“Fur is human.”
“Fur hurts like a bitch when it gets stuck in tape.”
“Just wait until you get the cast.”
“It’ll hurt?”
“No. But once we take it off, you might be able to braid it.”
“Doc,” she says through a giggle as she prods me with her toes. “You’re supposed to be helping.”
“I am helping. I’m distracting you so I can do this,” I declare as I tear off the bandage.
“Motherfucker!” she shrieks. She grips my wrist and laughs, her eyes wide. I know I’m grinning at her like a fucking fool, but I can’t seem to make myself stop. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure you have no credentials at all, and you won your stethoscope at the Duck Pond game.”
Rose lets go of my wrist only to whack me on the arm and then lean back, her smile slowly fading. It takes me a moment to realize mine has evaporated too. The ease of her touch makes it hard to hold on to words I shouldn’t say. It’s a struggle to quell the sudden urge to tell her how beautifully her skin glows in this light, or how funny and unique she is, or how grateful I am for the warmth of her touch, her presence. Just like I try not to think about how she’s naked under this plush robe. The hand she rests on her lap is the only thing keeping it from falling completely open.
“Maybe you’ve got a little vicious streak hidden away in you, Dr. Kane,” Rose says, and my thoughts of her body give way to images of Matthew Cranwell’s barn. I can still feel the weight of the wrench in my hand, the burn of rage in my veins. I don’t know if it’s something about my expression that changes, or if she just senses the shift in the air, but Rose grabs my hand. She opens my palm and lays a damp sponge there. “But you’ve got a kind streak too. And I like them both. Equally.”
Rose’s smile is soft, her eyes warm. I try my best to smile back. To focus on the simple actions of care and healing. I clean her wound with a gentle hand, each press of the sponge against the incision a ritual. I seek comfort in giving it. The man I chose to be when I entered medical school? That’s still the man I am.
But she’s right. Maybe I do have a vicious streak. And I need to remember that. Because it doesn’t seem so disconnected from the rest of me anymore.
TA-DA
Rose
“How does it feel?” Fionn asks as I swing next to him through the sliding hospital doors, my brand-new fiberglass cast wrapped with black tape. It encases my entire lower leg, all the way from my knee to the ball of my foot, replacing the temporary brace now that my stitches are out.