“I’m sorry,” André said, as fresh tears slipped down his cheek. None of this would have happened if they weren’t associated with him. He crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the bed, wrapping his arms around both her and his son.
Katrina sobbed on his shoulder. “This isn’t your fault,” she sputtered, feeling his guilt.
“Yes it is,” he said, taking ownership of the whole ordeal.
She pulled away from him, wiping her face and looking down at Sam. He was still sleeping. She got off the bed, laying him in his crib. “What happened today is not your fault, André.” She turned as she spoke.
André stared at her, the despair scratching deep as he tried to block the visions he had seen in his mother’s mind.
“I already saw what happened to me,” Katrina said. “Your mom isn’t that good at blocking her thoughts.” Her chin began to quiver as fresh tears slipped from the corner of her eyes. “I was knocked out cold. And he still...”
André crossed the distance quickly and took her in his arms, kissing the top of her head as she sobbed into his chest.
“Did you kill the son of a bitch?” she asked.
“No,” André answered. “But he’s a soprano now.”
Katrina looked up at him.
“He will never hurt another woman that way ever again.” He met her gaze. “Actually, he’ll never have any kind of sex ever again.” A satisfied smile surfaced and Katrina looked away.
“I want to move,” Katrina said.
André stepped back. “What do you mean?”
“This house is too accessible,” she said. “Too vulnerable to attack.”
“Where do you suggest we go?”
“My parents’ house,” Katrina answered. “I’ve got enough money to support us and the house is ours since the will settled. Besides, the security system is top rate and there’s a gate around the entire border.”
André considered the idea as he sat on the side of the bed. He looked around his bedroom and then back at her, torn between the need to be with his parents and the need to protect his wife and son. His eyes landed on Sam, sleeping peacefully in the crib and the decision was made. “All right,” he answered, looking back at Katrina.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” André answered. “Really.”
“When?”
André sighed. “When do you want to go?”
“Right now,” Katrina said. “We can pack up some things for tonight and come back tomorrow for the rest of our stuff.”
“Kat. I can’t just up and leave after what happened today. I’ve got to give my parents a little warning.”
Katrina swallowed hard and studied her hands.
“I’m staying up here with you tonight. I want to know you and Sammy are safe,” André said and closed his eyes, finally letting the day’s events take their toll. Tremors started in his feet and hands, working their way through his entire body until every fiber shook, rattling his teeth together.
“Are you okay?” Katrina asked, suddenly so close he could smell her shampoo.
André shook his head. “I need a pain pill,” he whispered with his eyes now squeezed shut against the pain lacing its way through his bones.
“Something’s wrong with your leg,” Katrina said.
André opened his eyes and looked at his right thigh. The fabric of his jeans darkened from the spot over the cut and spread out like a drop of water soaked into a paper towel.
“Take off your jeans,” she said, unbuckling his belt.
André slid his jeans over his hips and laid back, allowing Katrina to pull them off the rest of the way. He didn’t have the energy to sit back up.
“Jesus,” Katrina whispered as she looked at his leg. She bolted out the door. “Cal!” she yelled down the stairs.
Cal came bounding up the stairs. “Where is he?”
Katrina pointed and followed him into the bedroom.
The bandage was soaked but not with blood; it was stained a greenish color, which wasn’t the initial cause of Katrina or Cal’s alarm.
“Jesus.” Cal repeated Katrina’s sentiment as they stared at the red veins covering the skin of his thigh, spinning out from underneath the bandage. “Go get my bag, now.”
She immediately complied, disappearing out of the room.
“What the hell have you done?” Cal said, stepping closer to André.
“That bad?”
“Your leg is infected.” He looked at André. “How long has it been like this?”
André propped himself up and looked at his leg. “It wasn’t like that when I woke up.” He lay back on the bed, dizzy and weak. “My dad changed the bandages this morning.”
Katrina came in with the medical bag and put it down, scrambling for the antibiotics inside at Cal’s silent instruction. She filled a syringe and handed it to Cal.
Cal didn’t hesitate; he plunged the syringe into André’s leg at the tip of the cut and pushed the antibiotic into André’s vein, ignoring André’s hiss of pain.
André stiffened, the pain raking his form, spiraling out from the wound and encompassing him to the molecular level.
“Another one,” he barked and handed Katrina the empty syringe.
Immediately, the second one was placed in his hand. This time, Cal grabbed André’s arm and plunged the needle into another vein, emptying the contents.
“I’m going to need an IV line,” he said and ripped the bandage off André’s leg before turning to Katrina. “Get me a couple clean towels, now.”
She disappeared, reappearing moments later with two clean towels.
“Put one under his leg, please,” Cal said and then he slipped the IV in André’s hand and plunged a third syringe full of antibiotics into the line.
“Is this necessary?” André asked. The flurry of activity layered with a hazy veil and his mind wandered close to darkness.
“Yes,” Cal answered and rifled through his bag, finding the iodine solution but waiting a minute for the antibiotics to run through André’s system. He counted to sixty and then dumped the iodine on the puss-filled cut.
The shot had been a soft pat in comparison to the iodine saturating his wound and the haze disappeared, replaced with acute pain. André let out a yell loud enough to wake Sam. His breath hissed between his teeth and he squeezed his eyes closed, trying to shut out the discomfort as Cal cleaned out his wound, scraping the infected skin away with a scalpel.
Cal rinsed the open wound with saline solution and squeezed out a thin line of antibiotic ointment down the length of the cut before using his laser to seal it. “It’s over now,” he said, putting his hand on André’s chest.
André panted, taking control over his body and pumping the blood through his veins and arteries as fast as he could without risking a heart attack. The medicine flowed in and he felt it attacking the infection in his leg, his body breaking out in sweat as it fought the foreign bacteria.
Within five minutes, the IV bag was empty and the red lines receded until nothing was left but inflamed skin around the cut.
André slowed his breathing to a normal pace. “Jesus,” he whispered and traded a glance with Katrina.
Katrina handed Sam to her mother-in-law and stepped into the room.
“You have to stay off this, André,” Cal said. “Completely, not half-assed like you’ve done for the past couple weeks.”
“How long?” André whispered.
“A full week, no pressure on the leg at all.” He looked at the group in the doorway. “Does everyone understand?”
Katrina, Matthew, and Linda nodded.
Cal looked back at André. “If you don’t do as your told, I’ll admit you to the hospital and have you strapped to the bed for a week.” He lifted the sleeve of André’s shirt. “How’s the arm?” He pressed gently around the laser mark.
“It aches,” André answered.
“How about your abdomen?” he asked, lifting the shirt and examining the laser mark along the le
ngth of his stomach.
“It itches. All the time.”
Cal smiled. “That’s good. It’s healing.”
“Can I have a pain pill now?” he asked, ignoring the comment.
“How many are you taking a day?”
“Six.”
“You should only be taking two a day,” Cal said. “One in the morning and one before you go to sleep.”
“No way.” André gawked at Cal. He needed that medicine. It was the only thing that got him through the day.
“It’s an addictive narcotic, André; cut back now before you get into real trouble,” Cal said.
“But...” André started.
“Take aspirin if you’re uncomfortable,” Cal said and stood, packing up his medical bag.
Irritation snaked over his skin. “I want a pill.”
Cal turned toward André. “Not until tonight.”
“Fuck you,” André said and started to get up.
Cal exercised his power and pushed André back onto the bed. “I’ll haul your ass to the hospital if you get up on that leg.”
“I need medicine,” he said through clenched teeth.
Katrina approached the bed. “I need to get out of here,” she said. “Neither one of us are going to get what we want right now.”
His hands curled into fists as frustration raked through him. He considered using the influence to get his way, but one look at Katrina stopped him. Her eyes glared a warning, like she knew what he was considering. “You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I need it.”
“No you don’t.” She sat on the side of the bed and Cal slipped out of the room, leaving the negotiations to Katrina.
His eyes welled up with tears. “I hurt.”
“So do I. But you don’t see me filling up on narcotics.”
André blinked at her words. “You hurt?”
Katrina nodded. “I was raped today,” she said. Tears slid down her cheeks. “And he wasn’t gentle.”
André forgot about the pain in his leg and the insane need for medication. He sat up and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, gently rubbing her back with his fingers. He put his forehead on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“I want to go home.”
“When I get my walking papers, we will go. I promise.”
She nodded against his shoulder.
He moved to the side of the bed and pulled her down next to him, spooning her while she cried. He ran his fingers through her hair, willing himself not to think about medication or pain, just to concentrate on the feel of her body against him and the soft strands of her hair flowing through his fingertips. She relaxed against him and her breathing slowed as sleep took hold. “I love you,” he whispered and his eyes closed, exhaustion pulling him under the blanket of sleep.
20
André followed Cal’s orders, staying on the upper level and relying on the wheelchair to go between the bedroom and bathroom. André’s refusal to take any medication left him virtually intolerable and Katrina began to think he’d never kick the attitude. She knew he was determined to squash the addiction before he drowned in it, but that knowledge didn’t help when all he did was rant and rave about how much being in the house sucked.
Relief flooded Katrina on the fourth day when he finally stopped complaining. She had her own issues to deal with and his emotional unavailability wasn’t helping. For her own sanity, Katrina began taking small excursions to their house, bringing a little at a time without notice. She hired a housecleaner to make sure the place was livable again and contacted the utility companies to set up their power, television, and communication services so they could just move in when André got word that he could walk.
“I’m sorry,” André said as Katrina carried his dinner into the bedroom. He turned from the desk to look at her, his hair wet from taking the first shower since the morning of the incident.
She set the tray on the desk and glanced sideways at him. “You’ve been a real prick.”
“I know.” He put his arm around her waist. “I think I’m through the worst of it.” He offered her a smile.
“You better be, because if you keep treating us like you have, we’ll let you starve up here.”
She stepped away and he moved the chair back, turning to face her. “I’m surprised you haven’t done that already.”
“Yeah, well...” She trailed off.
“My parents wouldn’t let you.”
She nodded. “If it had been up to me, you would have been shot.”
“Ah.”
He rolled toward her, and she took a step backwards, sitting on the bed as he approached. His eyes sparkled with humor and a slow smile spread on his lips. The kind of smile that used to drive her wild, but now it only irritated her. “Stop looking at me like that,” she snapped and stood up. She found herself sitting back on the bed a moment later with André blocking her in.
“You wanted to shoot me?” he said, tilting his head and grinning.
“Yes.” The irritation slunk back a notch and her cheeks bloomed with heat. “Either that or duct tape your mouth.”
He put his hands on her knees. “Really? What about right now?” he asked, sliding his hands up her thighs.
“Stop,” she snapped, brushing his hands away.
André sat back, his smile disappearing. “Are you okay?”
Katrina sighed. “No, not really.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m having a tough time dealing with what happened.” Her hand fluttered to the small scab on her throat where the knife nicked her. Tough time was an understatement. She didn’t want to be touched, not even by André.
He pulled her onto his lap anyway, even wincing as she shifted to avoid his bad leg. He ran the back of his knuckles over her cheek. “What can I do?”
“I honestly don’t know,” she whispered and leaned her head on his shoulder. His sudden focus on her produced a grapefruit-sized lump in her throat and she swallowed it, feeling the pressure all the way down to her stomach. “Just be there when I need you to be.”
André nodded, holding her against him. “I still want you.”
“Thanks,” Katrina said, biting back the tears. He didn’t know how much those four words meant to her, especially after the way he treated her the past few days.
“You thought I wouldn’t want you after what happened?”
Katrina shrugged.
“Kat, I want you twenty-four-seven for the rest of my life.” He pulled her away so she could see his face. “No matter how much of an asshole I am, I love you and will always want you. The idea of having you in my arms each night has gotten me through the past few days.” He smiled. “You, on the other hand, may end up not wanting me when all of this is said and done.”
Katrina bit her lip and blinked back tears that threatened. “I’ll always love you.”
“But?”
“But right now I don’t want you to touch me,” she whispered. “I don’t want anyone to touch me.” The tears came.
“I can make it go away,” André said.
“Erasing my memory won’t help.”
“It’s just a suggestion,” he offered, closing his eyes. “I wish I still had that vibe, just for you.”
“I don’t know if even that would help,” she admitted.
André smiled and raised an eyebrow. “You sure I can’t make you forget for a little while?” His hand slid down her arm to her waist, stopping at the comfortable curve of her hip. “I’m pretty good at making you forget.”
Katrina closed her eyes. “You are, but right now isn’t the right time.”
He pressed his lips to her cheek, his breath minty, and his wet hair tickled her eyelids. His hand caressed the line of her hip and he wrapped his arms around her, just holding her even though she knew he wanted more. He wanted to prove he could still make her want him despite all that happened, but his silent acceptance of her was far more healing than a romp in bed would have been.<
br />
André kissed her shoulder and unwrapped his arms. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she replied against his neck. “I need to go feed Sammy.” She slid off his lap and left him sitting in the chair, staring after her.
André turned to the tray of food, his stomach growling for nourishment but his mind preoccupied with Katrina and her reaction to his touch. Whenever he reached for her, she flinched and her mind broadcast flashbacks: flashbacks she picked up from his mother’s memories, not her own.
He sighed and dug into the meal Katrina brought, resuming his Internet surfing.
The door opened behind him and he could see her standing in the doorway. André sent her a halfhearted smile as their eyes met in the reflection.
“I figured your son needs some daddy time now that you’re more yourself,” Katrina said.
André swung the wheelchair around. “I would love to have some time with Sammy.”
Katrina crossed the room and handed the baby to André.
André lifted Sammy up in the air. “How’s my boy?”
“You better be careful, or you’ll wear his dinner,” Katrina warned.
André pulled Sammy to his shoulder and looked at Katrina. “You okay?”
She smiled. “Thank you for not pushing the issue.” She leaned over and kissed him.
“Anytime,” he replied, rubbing Sam’s back as he snuggled against his father. “How much stuff have you moved?”
Katrina’s eyes went wide.
André laughed. “Come on, babe, I know what you’re doing—even in my withdrawal stupor, I knew. I’m surprised my father hasn’t picked up anything.”
“We have less than a week’s worth of clothes left,” she said. “The rest has been moved.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“Yeah, well, I had to get away from you and your wild ranting.”
“Ah,” he replied. “So did you take any of my clothes?”
“Of course.” The smile spread. “The downstairs den is completely cleaned out. That was the easiest stuff to move. You have no clue how hard it’s been. Between your father and the media, it’s been crazy, but the house is clean and the utilities have been switched on. We only need to pack up the rest of Sammy’s stuff and the things from this room that you want to bring.”
Wicked Legends: A Dystopian Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Collection Page 121