Page 7 of Matteo

My home as a safe place has to come without strings. And it will. All I want is to give her a place to recover. I’ll take care of the baby while she does. She doesn’t need to worry about anything but herself, which will make it easier for her to get better. At least Javier left all the furniture in the place. There’s even a crib for the baby. It’s just until she’s strong enough to find something else.

“Ma’am, it’s best if you lay back down so I can give you the shot.”

Her eyes pop open, meeting mine without searching. Chocolate disappears as her pupils dilate. I read it as clearly as I feel it in my bones—she felt the crazy feeling, too. She blinks, and it’s gone.

Nodding, she lays back down and pulls down her leggings and plain white cotton underwear several inches past mid-hip.

I focus on finding the perfect spot, not on the skin on show. Rubbing the site with the alcohol swab to clean it, I remind myself that she’s off-limits.

“Sorry,” I mutter, hating the idea of hurting her as I depress the plunger. I’m ready to hold her down if I need to.

All she does is moan and whimper.

When I remove the needle, she goes to touch it.

“Hold on. Let me get a band-aid on it.” I show her the little round band-aid I stuck to my thumb. Placing the band-aid in place, I rub gently, and she sighs. Trying to ignore the way the sigh slides down my spine, I cover her again.

“Being a baby, sorry.” The words clearly cause pain as she swipes at her throat.

“Don’t apologize. It’s a painful shot. I’m going to get the car seat out of your car and put it into mine. Give me a few minutes.”

Her eyes pop open wide. “What? Why?”

“Because you don’t have anyone to take care of you and watch your daughter while you’re sick.”

Double blinks and her mouth opens wide, then slams shut, confirming it. “What makes you so sure?” The words are nothing more than a croak.

I send an eyebrow up. Daring her to lie to me. “I checked your phone to get the number of an emergency contact I could call to come get you and your daughter. There are no contacts besides staffing companies. Which tells me there’s no one to call. I found the receipts for the motel you’re living in. It’s not a good place for you or your daughter, even if you were healthy.”

She pushes off the exam bed. Once her feet hit the floor, she sways. It takes everything in me not to grab her. Her hand is already on the bed to keep her standing before I can get to her. “I can take care of myself and Layla.”

I’ll give her points for trying. Both eyebrows up, I run my eyes over her. She’s not quite as small as I thought, five foot three, maybe five-four. Still almost a foot smaller than my own six foot two.

“I’ll tell you what. I won’t argue with you. I’ll even drive you back to the motel myself if you are able to stand on your own for longer than sixty seconds.” I bring up my watch to time her. “Push away now.”

Sweat collects along her brow. She tries. More points for trying. She falls back. Her hand goes down to catch herself. “I can take care of myself.”

I shrug. “Maybe yourself, but not your daughter too. This isn’t charity. It’s also nothing I haven’t done for other patients before. My first time since I’ve been back in Dallas. However, it’s far from the first time. You will each have your own room, and they come with locks on them.”

Tension eases in her ever so slightly when she hears the lock thing.

“Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face. That’s only allowed when it comes to you. Right now, this is about your daughter and what she needs.”

My words hit home. Her eyes fall to her sleeping daughter.

“Or I can take you to a shelter.” I offer. Despite the fact that I don’t want to. Shelters are no place to recover, and sure as shit, no one will take care of her there.

She flinches and shakes her head. “Okay, your house.”

“Good. Can I get your name now?”

She blushes and nods. “Amy.”

“Hi, Amy. I’m going to grab some diapers and other things for her. What size is she, and which formula does she prefer?”

It’s hard for her to speak as she gives me the information. The baby is nine months old? She seems too small for her age.

I grasp her arm to guide her to the chair beside the bed, worried she’ll keel over without support. Holy fucking shit. This is worse than I thought. The hunger is back—I’m desperate for more of the feel of her skin beneath my fingertips.

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