Page 29 of Beautiful Deception

He nods, his amusement never faltering. “Yes.”

“And the last session, what was that?” I had to dwell over the right word, but I gave up after seeing the mischief etching at the corners of his eyes.

“Your trust in me,” Dr. Kian emphasizes, and his smile sweetens like a nectarous flower being fed blood.

“Is that good?” I expect defensiveness on his face, a burst of heat carrying summer lances, or an aquatic siege under the shattered ice sheet.

He leans in as the glimmer from his golden frame forms a fickle halo in my eyes. I can taste the bitter antiseptic in the air when he’s inches from my face, and the aged honey in his eyes grips the string of my resistance not to kiss him.

“Have a bit of faith in me.”

Chapter Eight

__________

Maya

“You’re hurt.”

The glossy surface squeaks when I slam the book close. I look behind me, startled, and see the expanse of a black cotton shirt. It’s a tricky angle as my eyes draw up the man’s throat and onto his face while recognition pinches the side of my face.

I shoot a wary glance down to my foot with its neatly wrapped bandages. How can he see from that distance and angle? Dr. Kian is the only possible answer.

The thought of them being friends, regardless of their personalities, is giving me a headache. People are friends with whoever they connect with, but something about these two just doesn’t stand on the continuum.

“It’s just a cut,” I mutter while wiggling my foot.

There was some discomfort at the beginning, but after that, it’s itchy and slightly swollen. My foot doesn’t fit inside my shoe, so Dr. Kian carries me around when needed.

I would have declined if his determination hadn’t outshone his smile.

I can hop or walk extra slow, but he convinced me to completely remove pressure from my foot, citing a list of infections and possible death.

There might have been a mention of amputation as well, but I was too stunned by the crusty mental images of shriveled dead skin.

“The rescue team is expected to reach us by tomorrow morning.”

I nod, not sure what else to say when his finger traces the tenderness on the back of my neck. I woke up from a power nap, and the ache was already there. Dr. Kian said it could be from sleeping in an uncomfortable position.

It doesn’t feel like a strain.

“I didn’t do my job properly,” he hisses, and the underlining venom taunts the nerves on my neck where he’s mindlessly caressing it. “I’ll be finishing it.”

It would’ve probably happened with or without him, but I don’t blame him for it since he was getting help so everyone could leave this accursed place.

“Until whoever hurt me is caught, you’re not leaving me.” I cross my legs and crack open my book again, fingers gliding down to the last passage I was engrossed in.

“It could be years,” he notes softly.

“Years it is, then.”

One of the maids bursts through the door, breathless and wiping her sweaty forehead, and disregards the no-speaking rule when she exclaims that Peter is coughing up blood.

Remo cocks his head, almost contemplatively, and stares with divisive curiosity. He moves to pat the top of my head, a comforting gesture, before leaving for Peter’s room.

I shut the book again and set it beside a cup of tea on the side table. I test the pain by hopping on one foot and putting the injured leg down. It shoots dull pain, but I can deal with it by lamenting my bad luck.

“Miss,” the maid chants as her hand hovers on my side, not knowing what to do with them without offending me. “Can I give you a hand?”

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