Page 33 of Seven Nights

The speculative tone invading his voice chills me. This man knows why I am at the estate, knows that he has his hands on the billionaire’s paid-for-pet.

I swallow and wait for his attention to return to my mouth before answering. I don’t want him looking into my eyes again.

“Is that relevant to your medical opinion?”

He smiles, his gaze sliding up in search of mine.

“Just trying to relax you, Katelyn. I can tell you're resistant to physicians. Is your father a doctor?”

Anger heats my cheeks. Catching myself looking into Bentley’s eyes, I blink then bite at my lip. My father is not a doctor. He is an asshole attorney. He hired assholes doctors—psychiatrists—to certify that my mother was insane and needed institutionalized. They did it while I was at my Olympic trials, hoping to get Mad Maddy all suited up in a straightjacket before I could find out.

Absolutely none of this is Bentley’s fucking business.

I stare him down, my gaze sharpening as my spine straightens and my shoulders square back against the mattress.

“How’s my leg?” I ask, voice cool and crisp despite the fury burning my throat.

This time it’s Bentley’s turn to blink.

He half masks his reaction by dipping into his medical bag and pulling out a bottle of pills.

“In due time, Katelyn. Any allergies?”

“None,” I answer.

“Well, you can’t take ibuprofen or other anti-inflammatories for the ankle or the swelling in your head, especially before we do a scan. Don’t want a brain bleed. But Tylenol is okay, or some other acetaminophen brand.”

“Understood,” I grind out as he rests his free hand atop my right knee. Any higher up and he would have to slide his hand under the robe. If the bastard does, I’m punching him first in the face, then in the balls.

“Ever taken oxycodone?” he purrs.

I offer a dull “yes.”

“How much and for how long?”

“One pill—wisdom tooth, a decade ago.”

He leans a little closer, his gaze turning conspiratorial. “Did it work for you, Katelyn?”

“Yes.” I try to ease away, but my head protests the movement.

“Good.” He folds the bottle of pills into my hand, his touch lingering. “Ten Percocet and my private number when you need more.”

The man is a dope pusher with a medical degree.

“And the leg?” I ask, forcing a smile.

I don’t actually need his professional assessment. I’ve had enough sprains to know this is just a minor setback from the original injury. I need ice and elevation. I will be back in heels tomorrow—if that’s what Griffin wants.

I just won’t be running anytime soon.

Releasing my hand, Bentley drifts down the bed. He gingerly takes hold of my leg, the grip quickly turning proprietary. It’s as if the limb is no longer mine, but his.

Just like Griffin that first day in the limo.

My pulse accelerates as I realize why Griffin wanted to stay. He didn’t want to leave me alone with another manipulative, dominant male—one who can see in me whatever it was Griffin spotted on the auction tape. Griffin isn’t being possessive of me, merely competitive.

Feeling the threat of tears, I close my eyes.

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