Page 47 of Promise of Destruction
Once my health got too precarious, I began to see someone who charged in cash. It felt strange, sure, having to meet in unsigned buildings that didn’t look like a practitioner’s office, but I couldn’t fault Dr. Emile for being such a nomad that he didn’t bother to open an official practice. He was a legitimate doctor, and that’s really all that matters anyway.
Dr. Kane took bloodwork and cell samples, checked my blood pressure and vitals, and assured me the results would be submitted to the insurance company for me so that I didn't have to worry about any of the details.
When Declan walked out before her, she slipped me a business card with another phone number handwritten on the back, andtold me to call her if I need anything. Her eyes followed Declan, as if she didn't totally trust him. That makes two of us.
When he parks his car in my driveway and gets out of the driver's side, it's like I come out of a daze. I jump from the car just as he's opening the door and push past him.
"Let me help you upstairs." He offers. "I can make you a bath. Something to eat."
When I turn to glare at him, he doesn't back down. "She said you may experience some mild cramping. May as well get ahead of it."
"I can handle myself, Declan." I snap, rolling my eyes as I walk to the door and pull my keys out.
Idohave cramps, actually, which is exactly why I'm in even less of a mood to deal with him than usual. The exam didn't really hurt, but it's been over a year since I've had any kind of penetration, and it's like my body is bent on making me remember that it didn't appreciate the intrusion.
I open the door just enough to slip inside, but as I'm trying to shut it, Declan jams a shiny shoe between the door, wedging it open and inviting himself in.
"She took a lot of blood." Declan argues, shutting the door behind him and dropping his keys on the counter. "You need to rest, eat some sugar." His eyes scan the inside of my home and he makes a move toward the kitchen, but I reach out to stop him, leaning on him more than I want to.
"No. I'll throw up. I just need a shower."
He eyes me reluctantly.
"You want to help?" I snap. "Go start the shower. You clearly know where the bathroom is."
That, at least, gets a grin out of him. He does exactly that, making his way instinctively to the downstairs bathroom. It makes me wonder just how much of the inside of my house he’s seen.
After a moment, I hear the water start. I kick off my shoes and drop my purse on the counter, exhausted from the anxiety of being in a doctor's office again.
When Declan reappears, his sleeves are rolled up, exposing thick, tanned forearms. I watch the tendons and veins flex as he wipes his hands on a small towel and crosses to me. "Do you need anything else? Something to eat? A glass of water? Ibuprofen?"
"I'm fine." I push past him. "You'll pick me up in the morning?"
"Of course." He agrees.
"Then you can let yourself out."
I lock the bathroom door and nearly collapse against it, finally letting out all of the weird feelings that have been pent up inside me since I realized where we were going.
I always had a bit of medical anxiety-- white coat syndrome, my mom called it-- but since last year, the thought of going back to a hospital or a doctor has filled me with dread.
Add in the fact that I laid there on that table, naked beneath that gown and empty, and I feel so much worse.
I feel like the whole thing was some sort of weird show of his control over me, and I don't like it at all. Because the truth is, I didn't realize the extent of it until I realized I'd rather him be by my side than leave me alone.
thirty-two
Declan
Oh,Iknowshe'smad at me. And I can't exactly blame her.
I really did need her to see a doctor in order for her policies to begin. Considering that her last visit to a medical facility was the temporary institutionalization after she tried to kill herself, I needed something the insurance companies could put on file, so they can't deny any claims that may arise.
I definitely don't expect her to die anytime soon, and insurance wouldn't pay out for a completed suicide, but I know better than most how crucial life insurance is. I offer it to every one of my employees, from those in the offices I've never met to my personal staff and my housekeepers.
Of course, taking her to the gynecologist had been a calculated move; I needed her to be tested because I fully intend to fuck her, thoroughly and often. She didn't agree to be my concubine or anything— I'd never want a contract for sex— but if I am going to destroy her, I need to destroy all of her. Her sense of self-esteem, her self-worth, her hope...
Maybe it's wrong to push it this far. Maybe it's wrong of me, to play with her like a fish on a hook or a mouse in a trap. I don'teven know what my plan is yet, beyond forcing her to submit to me, to give me all of her and do it willingly, to make her give me pieces of herself no one has ever had before. I don't know if I'll leave after that, if the thrill will fade and I'll tire of her. The future doesn't matter all that much, really. What matters is that destroying her is a game she set into motion with that article, and it's a game she's set up to fail for all of the reasons she already knows it will. The same reasons she claimed in her article are the same reasons she won't be able to withstand me, why she'll come to regret publishing that article and putting herself in my path.
