Page 93 of Wicked Promises (Fallen Royals 3)

“It was scary,” I finally say. “Knowing someone had taken me away from Robert. The second before they knocked me out, they kept apologizing. Even when I was in the barn, and they were arguing…”

I press my lips together.

“How are you sleeping?” she asks.

“I’m… barely.” Every night is a struggle, although I haven’t told another soul that. I’ve scarcely admitted it to myself—that my sleep troubles might be a result of being taken. And the accident.

It doesn’t help that every time I close my eyes, I feel Robert’s arm across my chest, protecting me as we careened toward the ditch.

“I told my boyfriend I love him,” I blurt out. “Because I definitely do. But he didn’t say it back. I know he does, but I was really hoping to hear him say the words.”

She takes the subject change in stride. “First love?”

“Only love,” I say firmly.

She smiles. “When you know, you know. And maybe, since he didn’t just automatically say it back to you, it means it’ll be more special when he does.”

I hum. “That… makes me feel better, actually.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Pep talks?”

Her smile turns into a grin. “Perspective.”

“Ah.”

She glances at her watch. “And now, unfortunately, our time is up. Try writing in the journal. Bring it back with you on Friday.”

My cheeks heat up. “Am I going to be reading it out loud?”

She shrugs, and I catch a mischievous gleam in her eye.

Honestly, it’s about time she showed some personality other than serene. Still, I take that to mean, maybe.

I suppose I can work with that.

Lenora is parked at the curb, waiting for me. She looks at me expectantly when I slide in, but I just shake my head.

“Right, right, I shouldn’t ask.”

I laugh and tuck the notebook into my bag. “It is supposed to be confidential.”

“Well, fine. But did you find it helpful?”

I think back on my conversation with Dr. Sayer. The more I think about it, the more I like her definition of her job: to give perspective. She’s not out to heal or fix me—not that I can tell, anyway.

“It was,” I decide.

“Good. Robert is home, eagerly awaiting our arrival.”

I straighten. “He is? Already?”

“Yep. He got a clean bill of health from the doctors. As long as he takes it easy, he should be okay to return to work next week. And you, too.”

I touch my forehead. The stitches came out yesterday morning, before Riley and I went to the diner, but they said to keep a butterfly bandage on it for another day. That came off this morning, leaving a tiny, shiny scar.

And I’ve never been so happy to wash my hair without inhibition.

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