Page 100 of Savage Protector

Harrison Blair, Harry for short, was born ten weeks ago at twenty-one weeks and weighing under two pounds. No one gave much for his chances, but he somehow clung on for the crucial first twenty-four hours, and since then, it’s been touch and go, but recently more go. He’s gained weight and now tips the scales at six pounds. He can breathe on his own, feed, and maintain his own temperature up to a point. I’ve been at his side almost constantly, partly because I didn’t dare to leave him in case he slipped away while my back was turned. He was so fragile, hovering between life and death for weeks.

“His parents must be relieved,” Zayn says.

I can only nod, preferring not to describe the sobs of pure joy when I told them their precious little boy was probably going to live. Mrs Blair—Roxanne—clung to me, weeping, while her husband battled not to dissolve in grateful tears himself.

It’s moments like this that make all the hard work and the crippling workload worthwhile. I may be exhausted most of the time, but I’m living the dream.

“I love you.”

“I know. I love you, too. And I’m proud of you. You’re going to be a fantastic doctor and an even better consultant.” Zayn takes my empty plate and tosses it in the bin with the rest of the debris. “Ready for that shower?”

I nod and let him help me to my feet. We’re halfway up the stairs when my phone buzzes in the pocket of my jeans.

Zayn grins. “Not the hospital. Please…”

I check. “No. It’s…it’s my dad.”

His brow furrows. Zayn’s opinion of my father is low to say the least. He regards him as a weak, spineless individual who failed to lift a finger to protect me when I needed him.

He does have a point, but I prefer to think of my dad as a victim, a bit like I was. My mother and Abdul were a formidable force, and my dad was simply no match for them. They bullied him just as they bullied everyone else; he never stood a chance.

“I should take this,” I mutter, “It could be important.” I sit on the step to take the call.

Zayn sits down, too, on the step above. “Make it quick,” he mouths.

“Dad? What’s up?” I put the call on speaker so Zayn can hear, too. “Zayn’s with me.”

“Ah, good. Good. How is he?”

“He’s well. What about you?”

“Ah, you know. Can’t grumble.”

That was always his problem, I reflect. He never grumbles. Never has, no matter how vicious his wife and brother-in-law became. I sigh and move on.

“I just got in and I was going for a shower.”

“Well, I won’t keep you, then. I know you’re busy. It was just…”

“Dad? What’s the problem?”

“It’s Eid next week.”

“Is it?” Things have been so hectic at work I’d actually forgotten.

“Yes, so I was wondering if you might join us for the evening meal?”

“I beg your pardon!” I’m baffled. He’s never invited me before.

“You can bring… Mr Abbassi, if you want to.”

It’s a grudging offer; I can hear it in his tone. He steadfastly refuses to call Zayn by his first name, preferring to maintain a degree of formality. I try to convince myself that it’s his idea of being polite, though in reality I suspect it’s his way of pretending my relationship with Zayn is somehow that of ordinary acquaintances, nothing more. The prospect of his daughter with a live-in lover is just too much for him. And even if it wasn’t, I’m pretty certain he knows of Zayn’s involvement in the disappearance of his brother and nephews. Abdul likely told him at the time.

“I’m not sure…” I begin. I can sense Zayn’s unspoken “Hell, no,” from behind me.

“Please, if you can make it, even for just an hour or so. It would be…wonderful to see you.” He fails to conceal the hitch in his voice.

“Farah and Amina will be there,” I remind him. It’s not as though he’ll be spending the holiday alone.

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