Chapter 112
The drip stand clatters to the floor loudly, and I wince, hoping June doesn’t hear it from the room.
“What the fuck, Nathan?” I hiss. “I thought you were here to attack June. Why are you lurking around in the dark?”
I hear a soft groan. “Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you guys up.”
I snort. “You’re doing a wonderful job of that.”
I reach out and fumble around blindly for the light switch.
I squint against the sudden flood of light as I turn around–and frown.
Nathan is still behind the doctor’s desk.
“Are you going to come out of there?”
He doesn’t answer, and my frown deepens.
“Nathan?”
“I’m good, April,” he says, his words coming out tight. “You should go.”
In an act of contradiction, my feet carry me towards the desk. “Is this about our fight earlier?” I say softly as I round the table. “Because June and I-”
I pause. His head is buried in his pulled–up knees. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was cowering.
“Nathan?”
“Go, April.” It sounds like his words are coming out through clenched teeth.
I crouch down to him and place a hand on his elbow. A shudder runs through him at my touch.
“Nathan,” I whisper. “What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
I sit on the floor, crossing my legs in front of me. “We’re going to be here all night, Nathan, because I’m not leaving till you-”
He snaps his head up, and the rest of my words die a horrified death in my throat.
My hand slaps over my mouth, muffling my terrified gasp.
My eyes are wide, frantically darting back and forth as they take in Nathan’s face.
There’s dried blood caked against his right temple. The blood flowing down his nose still runs in a sluggish stream past his lips and down
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his chin. His left cheek is swollen and rapidly bruising.
My vision blurs slightly as tears brim in my eyes.
Nathan swears softly and once again buries his head in his knees. “Just go, April.”
I open my mouth to ask what the hell happened, but all that comes out is a choked sob.
Nathan stiffens.
“Please don’t cry,” he says softly, sounding like he himself is holding back tears.
“Who did this to you?” I choke out.
His shoulders lift in a shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t ma–Nathan, this is assault.”
His entire body vibrates, and I think he’s crying, but when he lifts his head again, I see that he’s laughing–bitter, dry laughter.
“Assault?” He shakes his head and reaches up, wiping away the blood under his nose with the back of his hand. “It’s discipline, April.”
Discipline.
His father did this.
Samuel Ashford–wealthy socialite, business tycoon, power broker, admired philanthropist–beats his son.
The tears stream down my face, and I make no move to wipe them away.
When Nathan told me about all the awfulness in his family, he conveniently left out the part where his father beats him.
“Please stop crying.” Nathan’s voice breaks on the plea.
How can I when my heart is hurting so much, I can feel the pain reverberating through my entire being?
I want to reach out for Nathan and hug him, but I don’t know where else he’s hurt, and the idea of hurting him even more brings a wave of fresh tears.
“Wh–why are you under the desk?” I ask shakily.
Nathan sighs. “I was looking for the key to the supply closet so I could treat my wounds. I heard you coming and hid because I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“Did you find it?”
Nathan holds out a hand to me. Lying on top is a bunch of keys on a panda keyring.
I take it out of his hands and push myself to my feet. I wobble slightly, feeling lightheaded.
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Get it together, April.
I move on autopilot to the supply closet. Sorting through it feels instinctive. I don’t have to think twice before I gather the items f neede Gauze, sterile saline, gloves, antiseptic wipes, bandages, pain relief medication, and an ice pack from the freezer.
I hate how familiar this all feels. Flashbacks of similar injuries I treated for my parents play in the forefront of my mind, and I can feel numbness slowly creep in.
It was a defense mechanism 1 cultivated back then because I felt my sanity slipping away with every stitch I sewed and every band–aid I applied. I knew feelings of frustration, hopelessness, and despair would overwhelm me if I let them in, so I forced them away.
But with Nathan, I want to feel *everything-*the good, the bad, and the ugly.
The only good thing about the numbness is that the tears have stopped falling. Using my arm, I wipe my face as best as I can, steeling myself before I push open the door with my shoulder.
Nathan is perched up on the examination table. His head rests against the wall, his eyes closed, and although he doesn’t open them when I walk in, I see him stiffen.
Wordlessly, I move to him and gently deposit the items in my hand on the table next to him.
“I can do it myself,” he says hoarsely.
“Like fuck you can,” I mutter.
I grab a clean cloth from the pile. First things first: stop the nosebleed.
His legs are spread wide, and I step in between them.
“Look at me,” I say softly.
Nathan doesn’t move.
“Nathan, I need to clean your wounds and stop your nosebleed.”
He still doesn’t move.
I huff. “Is this pride? Does it hurt your ego because I’m seeing you like this? Because I don’t care.”
Nathan’s eyes fly open, and his head straightens so he can look at me. “Pride?” he asks incredulously. “You think-”
Quickly, I move forward. Grabbing the back, I tip his head forwaerd slightly and press the cloth under his nose.
“Breathe through your mouth, okay?”
Nathan seems momentarily stunned by my action, but I eventually feel his warm breath against my hand as he breathes through his mouth.
I count under my breath, and at sixty, I pinch the soft part of his nose with two fingers, firm but careful.
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Then I gently lean his head back. “Hold this,” I whisper, guiding his hand to replace mine.
Nathan sighs, now pinching the bridge of his nose.
I smile. “You’re doing great.”
A single tear slides down Nathan’s unbruised cheek, and reflexively, I lean forward and press my lips against his cheek, tasting the salt on his skin.
“It’s okay,” I whisper against him.
I don’t expect him to speak, but when he does, his words tear at my heart.
“No, it’s not.”
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