Page 31 of Gifted Destiny

“That was a long-winded way of saying that I think you’re beautiful, Zosia. Alphas are supposed to be leaders and protectors, and seeing you in pain is hard for me. One session of stretching and massage won’t produce a miracle, but a routine will prepare you for those braces.”

The prospect is appealing. Molded braces would allow me to walk upright with the others instead of hunched over my crutches or trapped in my chair. I’d also be able to carry things. Most importantly, it will offer me a sense of independence.

Oblivious to the hope tentatively growing inside me, Garrett continues. “Doing this isn’t entirely unselfish. Of course, I want you to feel less pain, but I have other reasons.” His confession pulls me out of my brief daydream.

“Oh?”

His expression is almost sheepish when he nods. “It’s petty and somewhat childish, but it makes me feel like I’m choosing my own path. If I’d been anyone but Addington’s heir, I’dalready be starting a career. I like to think it would have been something like this – sports therapy or physical rehabilitation – or I might have been a chef.” His broad shoulders rise and fall. “Here, I can kind of do both even if they’re not an actual career. Addington would absolutely hate that I’m doing anything like this, even as a part-time interest.” His explanation is both wistful and rueful. Neither of us points out that he would have been a different person if he hadn’t been Addington’s heir; it’s unimportant.

“Besides sticking it to my asshole father, increasing your strength will increase your confidence. I think everyone will benefit from this, and we’ll be able to concentrate more completely on our duties.”

His brutal honesty makes me flinch. It might be considered manipulative, but I don’t blame him for not pulling any punches. Holding onto my pain because of embarrassment doesn’t affect just me. It could distract and potentially hurt everyone. We’re supposed to be a team, but I’m not acting like a team member.

I inhale deeply as I brace myself and sweep aside the blanket concealing my legs. I breathe through my anxiety as Garrett’s face and body display every emotion. He doesn’t hide them, and I’m grateful for his honesty. I expect the flash of shock and clinical assessment, but I’m not prepared for his most prominent reaction. I see the tension in his muscles and the vein pulsing in his neck, but our incomplete bond projects the emotion to me as an ache in my chest.

“I ….” He sucks in a ragged breath before continuing. “I didn’t expect to be so angry.” The raw quality of his words suggests that he’s holding back roaring screams, tears, or both.

“Our father did this to you. His hand might not have held the weapon, but this was done on his orders. He was cruel to us, but it was nothing like this. We had wealth and comfort.”

I fidget with the blanket again as I try to sort through his words. Does he feel sorry for me?

Perhaps sensing my unspoken question, Garrett’s amber gaze meets mine. “This is not pity, Zosia. Pity is usually condescending or belittling. Your strength of will and determination to survive is unquestionable, though, and I’m awed by it. You’re amazing.”

Heat suffuses my entire body. He’s saying all the right things and his emotions uphold his sincerity. I’ve always considered myself a survivor, but it’s gratifying to hear confirmation. Still, his intensity is making me nervous, so I try to deflect his attention.

“You and Bren are survivors too,” I insist. “The method of Addington’s cruelty doesn’t matter. In fact, it might have been easier for me in some ways.”

He huffs in disbelief.

“Just hear me out.” I talk over him when he starts to argue. “My world had no illusions. I didn’t expect love, kindness, or fatherly affection because I was a prisoner and nothing more. I didn’t worry about whether I’d do something to anger or disappoint my captors because a relationship didn’t exist. I’m not trying to make this a competition. I just want to point out that he tried to break all of us – just in different ways.” I meet his gaze again. “He didn’t succeed.”

We maintain eye contact, neither of us wavering. The dark brown with hints of yellow is so different from Bren’s that it’s hard to believe they’re brothers.

“No, he didn’t. Even without revenge, our existence right now – together – proves it.” Self-assured firmness bolsters his words.

This surprisingly uninhibited and intimate discussion has affected me in ways I can’t express yet. He might appear wholeand unmarked by life, but he has suffered in similar ways. This understanding collapses the final barriers regarding my injuries.

“Okay.” Despite my determination, the word emerges in a higher pitch than my usual voice. “I’m ready for you to do your thing.”

He searches my face for confirmation, and I’m afraid I’ll change my mind if he stalls. I take the first step by lifting my left leg up for him. He takes it in his warm hands and scoots the chair even closer to lessen how far I have to stretch. After a second, he grunts and fiddles with the chair so that it’s lower. His body appears cramped in this position, but it’s better for me.

Then, he begins a tentative exploration. His movements grow more certain as he evaluates my breathing and comfort level. I am surprisingly okay, and he relaxes at the realization.

He seems particularly skilled despite saying he’s only researched it as a hobby. His movements are methodical as he tests the range of motion in each of my leg joints and locates the trigger points that form constant knots in my muscles due to overcompensation and poor stretching over the years. After his initial evaluation of my left leg, he moves to my right leg and does the same.

My right leg is worse than my left, particularly below my calf, and my fears squawk for my attention. I push them away, focusing on Garrett instead of myself. The shifter’s huge hands could easily span my ankles, and his body radiates as much warmth as a therapeutic heating pad. The solidity of his warm thighs is impressive and almost unbelievable.

He directs his gaze toward his lap as he focuses, and the dim light casts the rugged planes of his face into shadow. His thick, dark lashes, similar to Bren’s, create crescent shapes on his cheeks.

“You said you had some salve? Your muscles are really tight, and it will help me massage them.” His voice startles me when it breaks the concentrated silence.

I nod and bob my head toward the dresser on his right. Garrett doesn’t release my leg as he reaches for the container and removes the lid. A single eyebrow rises when he sees that it’s barely touched. I shrug sheepishly. I’ve been far too tired to bother.

I expect him to dip his fingers into the oily substance and begin immediately, but his gaze slides up my body instead. I glance down automatically. Did I drop food on my shirt during dinner? Does the way I’m sitting make my boobs hang out? I’m still covered and clean, though.

“Your muscles won’t relax until you’re relaxed. That position can’t be comfortable.”

I’m accustomed to discomfort and had been too preoccupied with my fear to notice. Now that he’s pointed it out, however, I notice the ache in my wrists and arms from supporting my upper body.

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