since he’s allowed you to become part of his care, I’m taking the liberty on the chance that you can help him.”
* * *
Anais waited for his nod of understanding, and swallowed past the lump of fear in her throat. Since her mad scramble out of the country, she’d made a point of being good at eye contact. When you looked someone in the eye it established a connection that usually helped you in some fashion—intimidating muggers, letting professors know you meant business, letting patients know you were there and cared about what happened to them. Helpful.
Looking Quinn in the eye, she felt small. And hideous. The contacts didn’t change her vision in any way, but they made her feel hidden, and unseen was safe. Now she had to dig deep for the courage she hadn’t even glimpsed since she’d seen him.
One piece chipped free from her Anna armor, and she was stuttering with tears burning.
“He’s got more damage than just his legs.” Her voice was too high, too shaky.
Quinn’s stormy eyes lifted to hers again, narrowed. “I haven’t seen his chart and getting him to talk about his injuries is almost impossible. Was he shot? I know about the IED. They throw off shrapnel.”
“He wasn’t shot. There were a few abdominal wounds from shrapnel, but most have healed nicely.” She should’ve rehearsed this. The words didn’t even want to move through her throat. “He lost one testicle.”
Anna would be stronger. She’d look him in the eye again.
It took force, and strength she didn’t really have at the time, but she met his gaze. The description of damage took the disappointment out of his eyes; he’d focused on Ben, just as she’d hoped.
“They were able to restore urinary function. But there’s more...” She saw understanding dawn on his face and, the second it came, she wished she hadn’t needed to tell him.
“MORE TO RESTORE?” Quinn’s words came slow and low, as if tension and gravity made him pause for a breath after each word.
“Repairing areas with vascular damage.” She clarified, “They did what they could the first time, but it didn’t heal properly. The surgeon is confident he can restore full function, but Nettle—Ben—won’t talk to anyone about it. I even tried once, early on, because the staff GP said he’d gotten nowhere either. The psychiatrist also had no luck. He shut me down really quickly.”
Quinn took it in dead silence.
Was he getting it? She couldn’t tell if it was his usual tactic—letting the bad wash over him like water off a duck’s back—or if he was processing. There was concern on his face, but his silence didn’t give any hint to his thoughts. She’d have to put it to him straight.
“I think if you talk to him about the procedure and why he should have it, he might listen...”
He reached behind him and rubbed the back of his neck, finally pulling his gaze away from her for a moment. “He’s talking a little, but I don’t want to push him. It’s a delicate balance, right now.”
Like Quinn was talking a little. It was only an opening, but one she’d never got before. Talking about problems, at least his friend’s problems, might be within his capabilities. He hadn’t said no. He just needed convincing.
Anais stood and dragged her chair closer to him, close enough that their knees almost touched.
“He’s got a chance at a normal life if he has the procedure. I doubt he feels like getting married knowing he won’t be able to father children, or...be...with his wife.” Don’t linger on the sex, even if she knew Quinn would definitely get that rationale. “I think that particular injury is an even bigger one mentally to him than his legs. It’s the reason for how you found him, I’m sure of it.”
Quinn’s expression hadn’t changed—concerned, maybe a little out of his depth and horrified at the idea of talking to his friend about something so personal. But what got more personal than asking your friend to cut your dangling fingers off?
She kept going. “With the surgery, he could have a normal life. We can work with him on his mobility—his life won’t ever be entirely normal because he’s a double amputee, but he could have a family.”
A family. Something she’d wanted with Quinn. Something she still wanted, but had never been able to picture with anyone else. The word had become like a weapon, a word that could hurt them both. But if she couldn’t reach Nettle, she had to reach the person who could.
Whatever it took.
Before she could think too much about it, she took his left hand, forcing him to look at her again.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his stormy gray eyes sliding from their hands to her eyes, but lingering heavily over her mouth.
He started to pull away.
“Wait!” She transferred his hand to lie on her palm and traced the jagged edge left after the blast. “If you could have back these parts that were taken from you, if you could have them, fully functional, wouldn’t you want it? I know this was terrible for you, and I haven’t—” she swallowed “—I can’t close my eyes without seeing it.”
Her throat squeezed so hard she could barely breathe, let alone talk. Blessedly. Those weren’t the words she’d needed to say. This wasn’t about her. It was about him. About Ben.
“Imagine you could have a place for your wedding ring, the next time you married.” She felt tears slip as she said the words. “Wouldn’t you want that? I know...it didn’t...go the way...either of us hoped it would, but sometimes...”
“I have no desire to get married again.” The words dropped like lead.
A sharp jerk pulled his hand from hers and she lifted her eyes to his, not even trying to hide the tears quivering in her vision.
She’d messed it up, yet more proof they never knew how to talk to one another. This wasn’t supposed to be about them. How had it become about them?
Pressure on her neck made her lift her head, and the next instant his mouth covered hers. The moment stretched out and she measured it in breaths and heartbeats. One breath she was in her chair, the next she was in his lap, her sluggish mind struggling to catch up.
All she knew in that moment was an ache that seared into her. His mouth, hot and desperate, on hers echoed the frenzied need crouching in her own breast since the moment she’d heard his laugh. She was a silly, naïve twenty-year-old again, starved for his kisses, for his touch, for the heat of him against her.
When she opened her eyes, it hurt to see him. His brows were wrenched, as if touching her hurt more than helped. As if he tortured himself with every kiss, but couldn’t stop.
She didn’t want to stop. She didn’t want to feel him shaking or the mingling of pleasure and bitter need that twisted her insides. But she couldn’t stop.
Her arms came around his shoulders, pulling him close, reveling in his solidity, the breadth of him. His face had matured; his body had as well. He was a new man, but still the same.
His arms around her waist bent her toward the floor, and he paused only long enough to shove chairs violently away, making a space for them.
There was no way for reason to intervene, not when his unfamiliar and heady mass pressed her into the cold wood floor, and his hands began frantically pulling at the material separating them.
Her tank top came up and her front-clasp bra popped open at his insistence. He only took his mouth from hers to turn his attention to her breasts.
Her breath left her and she moaned so loudly that he lunged back over her, covering her mouth again with his own, absorbing every tortured gasp he ripped from her.