Page 67 of Promise of Destruction
I begged him to fuck me like a pathetic whore.
He produces my phone in one hand, the other reaching up to swipe hair off my face.
I haven’t even looked in a mirror this morning, and now I really don’t want to. I’m sure the tears I cried last night left my face a bloated and puffy mess, not to mention the liquor and the hangover effect from Marissa’s monstrous concoction of wine and benzos.
Snatching my phone from him, I narrow my eyes in suspicion, wondering if he did anything to it. It’s still powered off, so I know he hasn’t been snooping through my photos or something. Weird how that would still feel like a violation after he literally watched me masturbate from the other side of my window.
I wait expectantly, thinking he’s going to say something, offer me an answer to the question he has just pretended not to hear. Declan only runs his fingers over the back of my neck, watching me like he’s waiting for something too.
He’s just opening his mouth to say something when the doorbell rings.
I take a step toward the door, but he redirects me to the living room with a gentle push.
“It’s for me. Go sit.”
Dr. Kent is waiting for me with a wan smile, a tall IV stand that surely couldn’t have been folded up in that bag standing next to the couch. He snaps a pair of gloves on his hands, the sound making me wince. The fact that I’m in my home this time is asmall comfort. He’s still a doctor, but not being in a sterile white room makes his presence so much more tolerable.
Presenting my arm to him, I busy myself with turning my phone on. My cheeks warm with embarrassment when it hums to life for a full minute, vibrating with each notification I missed.
I didn’t even bother looking through my phone when Declan gave it to me. Despite his denial, I’m sure it’s equipped with something that allows him to see exactly what I’m doing on it, and though I don’t have any social media accounts anymore, I don’t want him to see anything that I use my phone for. Particularly since some random person sent me an email about him.
I didn’t even bother programming any numbers into the phone, but I recognize the panic and urgency in text messages.
You okay, babe?
Ren, answer me!
I’m getting nervous, answer your phone.
If he hurt you, I’ll never forgive myself.
Call me when you see this!
I’m going to report you missing if you don’t fucking answer!
I laugh, unable to help myself. I may not have much faith in the world, but Khan worries over everything. If a leaf blows in the wrong direction, he all but hunkers down for a tornado. It’s exhausting and amusing all at once.
His polar opposite, Marissa sent me a single text. I’ve had her number memorized since we were teenagers, but even if I didn’t recognize it, the message would have given her away.
If he kills you, you’d better haunt his ass. And speaking of ass… take pics of it, too.
Just then, Declan walks by, leading two women with their arms full of bags. He doesn’t spare a glance my way, so neither do the women. They disappear into the kitchen, and no matter how much I crane my neck, I lose sight of them.
I don’t even notice the pinch of the needle biting into my skin until he pulls it out, leaving the tube in my arm.
“You’ll feel better soon.” Dr. Kent promises as he fiddles with the IV.
“Isn’t this the kind of thing a nurse does?” I ask, suspicion starting to creep in as the liquid makes its way from the bag on the stand into my veins. It’s just occurred to me that the pounding in my head has already lessened a little since I woke and maybe accepting a random guy is a doctor who’s going to make me feel better was an awfully trusting display of stupidity.
For all I know, he’s going to put me into a medically induced coma, and I’ll wake up one day in Declan’s basement. Maybe I’ll never wake at all.
“Yes,” he nods. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not capable.” He winks at me, and the most inexplicable feeling washes over me. I don’t know how to explain it, because it’s not déjà vu and it’s not homesickness, but it’s rooted somewhere in between.
There’s a strange sense of comfort and familiarity that the doctor gives me. It’s almost paternal, and it has my thoughts turn toward the man I never knew.
My mother had refused to talk about my father and I don’t know if it’s because she was slighted that he left her or because she was trying to keep her opinion of him from coloring my world. I’m sure that he wasn’t a doctor with a soothing presence, though. If he was, I probably wouldn’t find myself drawn to a man like Declan, unable to push him away… I’m sure Freud had a theory about it, anyway.
“You said you’ve known him for a long time.” I venture. “Are you… related?”
