Page 20 of Claiming Genevieve

“Like fuck it isn’t a big deal, lass.” He’s on his feet in an instant, and I feel the nurse behind me twitch, as if she’s unsure what exactly is happening here. “I’ll call my driver to come around right now, and I’ll give you a ride back.”

“That’s not necessary,” I start to protest, but Rowan fixes me with those deep green eyes, his expression mulishly stubborn.

“You’ve been injured, lass. I’m not letting you try to get yourself home on your own, and neither would that boyfriend of yours, if he had a speck of manhood in him. I won’t hear any argument about it,” he adds, as I open my mouth to try and continue doing exactly that. He’s already fished his phone out of his pocket, tapping out a text, and I stare at him.

“Rowan, I’m capable of?—”

“Of course you are.” He pockets his phone again, standing in front of me, and his gaze meets mine once more. “But what kind of man would I be if I let you, Genevieve? Not the kind I want to be, that’s for sure. I’ll take you home, and that will be the end of it.”

I slump back into the wheelchair, aware that arguing with him is going to be a dead end and take more energy than it’s worth. And besides that… something in me softens at the stubborn look on his face, the intensity there.

“I’ll take it from here,” he tells the nurse, as I see a black town car pull up at the curb just outside of the doors. The nurse glances at me, and I nod, too tired to resist any longer. And if I’m being honest, there’s some small part of me that wants to forget about how angry I am at Rowan, just for a moment, and let someone take care of me.

He holds out an arm, and I realize a moment later that he’s giving me assistance to get up. I take it, gingerly, and I’m painfully aware of how close he is, his warmth and that woodsy scent washing over me. I have to resist the urge to lean into him, to let myself enjoy the feeling of being held up by him for just a moment.

Rowan waits patiently while I figure out the crutches, and then walks next to me as I hobble out toward the waiting town car. Every part of me hates him seeing me like this—just a few hours ago, I was a bird on the stage, graceful and beautiful and doing what I was always meant to do.

Now I’m struggling to walk, awkward and hobbling, and it makes me feel like a shell of myself.

Rowan opens the car door for me, helping me in, and I slide into the cool leather interior. I feel overheated, and I turn my head, pressing my cheek against the leather of the seat as I hear Rowan slide in next to me.

“What’s your address?” he asks calmly, and I realize he needs it if he’s going to take me home.

I give it to him, and he whistles with a slight grin. “Fancy,” he says, before nodding to the driver. “Does it make up for what a dick your boyfriend is?”

“I’m sure wherever you live is even nicer.” I close my eyes, wishing I could somehow stop time for just a moment. Everything feels like too much—the accident, Rowan, going back to the apartment, Chris. I don’t know how to unravel it all, where to begin to figure out what I’m going to do next.

Healing and rehab will mean months away from the ballet company. By the time I return, they will have replaced me asprima. If this were a wrist injury—something that wouldn’t affect my dancing so severely, they’d have my understudy take my place for the remainder of the performances, and then have me come back. But even with rehab, I don’t need a doctor to tell me that I will likely never reach the heights that I was at just hours ago. I won’t be theprima. And the thought of becoming just one of the company again, of melding back into a sea of dancers with no possibility that I’ll ever achieve what I dreamed of ever again… it makes me feel as if I’m coming apart at the seams. As if I want to scream, and scream, and never stop.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts and grief that we make it back to the apartment before I realize it. “This is your stop,” Rowan says, dragging me back to reality, and when I look at him, he offers me a small, sad smile. “I’m sorry, Genevieve,” he says softly. “I?—”

I can’t hear any more. I grab for the door handle, shoving it open as I struggle with my crutches getting out. I hear Rowan getting out of the car, too, but I hobble up the sidewalk as quickly as I can, trying to put distance between us before he can say or do anything else.

I don’t look back to see if he’s still watching, or if he’s following. I get to the front door of the building as quickly as I can, and I have a hard time looking the doorman in the eye as he sees me. I can see the shock on his face, but he smooths it quickly, opening the door so I can hobble inside. The crutches squeak against the slick tiles, and the elevator seems miles away.

Once inside, I tap the keycard for the penthouse against the reader and lean my head against the mirrored wall, closing my eyes. For a moment, I think I might actually fall asleep like this, until the elevator chimes and brings me back out of my momentary fugue.

The penthouse is dark when I walk inside. I have no hope of navigating the stairs leading up to the bedroom on my crutches, so instead I make my way slowly to the kitchen, getting a glass of water before retreating to the couch. I stretch out on it awkwardly, looking out at the city skyline beyond the huge windows. The couch is all leather and hard lines, meant more for aesthetics than lounging, and I have a hard time getting comfortable. But I’m so exhausted that it doesn’t matter—I’m asleep as soon as I have a chance to yank one of the stiff throw pillows under my head.

9

GENEVIEVE

When I wake up, it’s to the bright sunlight coming in through the windows all around me, once more giving me that uncomfortable feeling of being in an aquarium that I’ve always gotten here. I sit up slowly, my entire body complaining. I feel stiff and awkward, and I desperately want a shower.

“Chris?” I call out tentatively, hating that I’m going to need to ask for help. But just looking at the stairs makes me feel as if getting up to the bathroom is going to be a herculean task. “Chris?”

There’s no sound in the apartment other than theclinkof the icemaker. I push myself up slowly, groaning softly at the pain that ripples through me, and reach for my crutches. A sweep of the lower half of the apartment tells me that he’s not down here, and I look at the stairs again.

I have to manage it, somehow.

My phone buzzes, and I glance at it. The screen, when it lights up, is littered with texts—no doubt from Evelyn, Dahlia, the other dancers, Vincent. I can’t face answering any of them. I stare at the phone for a moment, longer, then back at the stairs, before nearly jumping out of my skin when I hear a knock at the door.

Who in the hell?It’s not Chris, obviously—he wouldn’t knock. Evelyn or Dahlia, maybe, come to check up on me. I grab my crutches, making my way laboriously toward the door as the knock sounds again, and I lean on one crutch as I reach for the doorknob.

I swing it open to see Rowan standing on the other side.

“What—”

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