Page 12 of Beauty Unmasked
I shrug.
“Okay, I need to go. I’ll see you on Monday, Ipromise.” She blinds me with a brilliant smile, and I’m hit with the urge to rub an ache in my chest—just over my heart.
“Monday. Bye, Belle. Stay safe, baby.” I freeze, unable to believe I called her baby. The light in her eyes dims a fraction, but she doesn’t say anything before walking out.
I lean against the doorjamb and watch her settle into the car and finally drive away. It feels like I scared her off. Boundaries have been crossed, and I worry it’s too much for her. The next couple of days are going to fucking drag without her here.
“Viktor Prinz? I’m Toby Gaston. I’ll be filling in for Ms. Marchant.”
All the air is sucker-punched out of me with those words. “Excuse me?” I say to the man with thin eyebrows.
“I’ll be your physical therapist today. My understanding is your prosthetic should be ready by tomorrow and then you’ll work with the CPO.”
His words bounce around my brain, and I feel like an idiot. I can’t seem to comprehend this. It makes no sense to me. She said she’d be back. When the truth hits me, I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched again, this time to the stomach.
She lied…
I give him a curt nod and move away from the door, granting him access. He removes his jacket, and I can’t help but note what a “pretty boy” he is. I’m suddenly struck with the urge to knock him around. Maybe give him a scar to roughen up that face.
Pulling my muscles tight, I stand to my tallest, and I can’t help but smirk at the fact that I’m a full head taller. “You’ll have to excuse me, as I’m confused with my change in therapists.”
“I understand, Mr. Prinz,” Mr. Pretty Boy tells me.
I grind my teeth. “Viktor.”
“Well, Viktor, this was last-minute, and I’m not at liberty to share my therapists’ personal matters. Now, let’s get started?” Mr. Pretty Boy tells me, and I squeeze the handles to my crutches. It’s either that or beat the smug bastard.
I push myself to the max in my session, refusing to show this man any weakness. There’s something about him and the way he mentions Belle. I don’t like it at all.
She’s not mine,I remind myself. I have no claim to her even though that’s exactly what I want to do. I want to mark her with my touch, my mouth, my body. The need within me is primal and, this asshole is testing my limits.
Mr. Pretty Boy massages the tissue around my scars. The feeling is so different than Belle’s soft and healing hands. Both are conducted in a sterile and medical way. Only, Belle infuses her touch with something different, her concern for my healing isn’t superficial.
Lost in my thoughts, I’m not sure what I did exactly, but Mr. Pretty Boy meets my eyes. I find pity reflecting back at me in his blue eyes. The slow simmer of anger I’ve been holding back for the last hour finally boils over. I jerk my leg from his hands and sit up.
“Hey!”
“Thanks for coming by. You can grab your shit and see yourself out.”
“Mr. Prinz, you really need to ice your leg after this session,” he says and rises as I do.
“I’m perfectly aware of what I need to do next. With all due respect, you can take your pity and get the fuck out of my house.” I bite back the growl itching to be released. The beast within me claws to the surface, struggling to be unleashed.
“Hey! You can’t talk to me like this!”
I step into the man’s face so he has to tilt his head all the way up. “Get. Out.”
“Asshole.” The word comes out as a mumble, and I’m seething.
“Yeah, at least you have that right. Now leave before this one-legged asshole kicks your ass.” Proving to the man how serious I am, I drop the crutches to my right, against the couch. Mr. Pretty Boy’s eyes round as I crack my knuckles.
“You’re fucking mental,” he tells me and gathers his things.
Balancing on my leg, I cross my arms and track him as he packs quickly. No way in hell can I say another word to him. I don’t need their help anymore. They already told me I’ve advanced better than they expected. I’ll keep the exercises, stretching, and icing up without him. I’ll be receiving my prosthetic tomorrow, and then I’ll be seeing a different therapist anyhow.
I know I’m broken. I don’t need him to remind me of this fact.
One reason I’ve become such a hermit, is I can’t stand the pitying looks people send my direction when they think I’m not looking. Only Belle and Aunt Mabel have ever spared me of that pity. Their belief in me has pushed me to dig deep, past all of the pain.
Mr. Pretty Boy casts me a side glance and hightails it to my door before I hear it open and shut behind him. I grab my crutches and go to the door on a tired leg and lock it up. I return to the kitchen and grab an ice pack, determined to finish this marathon on my own.
I’m pissed at her and pissed at myself for letting her hurt me. “She fucking lied to me…” I hear the hurt in my words moments before I succumb to my exhaustion from my comfortable spot on the couch.
