Viktor
Life can be so damn cruel and unfair. I should be in that casket, not her, never her. With my head down, I breathe deeply and feel the tears sting my eyes.
On my lap is two dozen red roses. I know she’s rolling her eyes and scolding me for wasting money on the flowers. I place all but one rose onto the casket that is much too big. With my chin to my chest, I place a shaky hand on the cold box, aware of all the eyes watching me. There aren’t many here for the funeral, not that I expected there to be, but she deserved more, so much more.
I sit back and settle the last rose on my lap and grab the wheels at my sides. I make my way down the aisle, ignoring the pitying glances directed at me.
Fuck all of them.
An incessant itch begins in my leg, just below my knee. I suck in air as the need to scratch overwhelms me, but I only move my arms faster. Each push is a reminder that my arms aren’t as strong as they once were and—the glaringly obvious fact—that I have nothing there to scratch.
I’m forced to stop when the only other woman in my life steps before me. It’s either that or run her over, something I can’t do. Her red-rimmed eyes soften a fraction before the skin between her eyes wrinkles.
“Viktor. You haven’t returned any of my calls. I didn’t think you were coming.” Her voice is sharp, hiding her own grief.
“I came,” I say, grinding my teeth.
“Did you get my message about tomorrow?”
“You mean the one saying someone will be coming into my home to babysit me?” I snap. There’s so much grief inside me, and I know this woman doesn’t deserve my anger, but I can’t help it.
She sighs with frustration. “Vik, darling, no one is babysitting you. Ms. Marchant comes highly recommended.” Her eyes dart down to my leg. “It’s physical therapy, darling.”
“I’ve had physical therapy, Aunt Mabel,” I snap, and lift what’s left of my right leg. No way in hell could I forget the agonizing pain or the time I spent in the hospital.
“Viktor,” she whispers, and I hear her sadness over what’s become of me and my life. “I know you’ve already tried the prosthetic before, but I feel like it will work out better this time. The doctor stressed the importance of the physical therapy in your recovery. Your new prosthetic will be ready very soon.”
Nothing she says is new to me. I’m perfectly aware of what everyone has told me. The psychiatrist, doctors, and specialists have all told me that I can live a normal life, telling me how vastly the technology behind prosthetics has improved.
Well fuck them.
They weren’t missing a part of their leg. They weren’t waking up with a cramp in a calf that doesn’t even exist anymore. They weren’t burying their mother after she suffered a coma-inducing heart attack when she learned an IED had struck her son’s unit.
Fuck all of them.
The anger within me mixes with my grief, and I can’t breathe. The elephant that has made its home on my chest only makes itself more comfortable. I snap my eyes to Aunt Mabel and say between clenched teeth, “I’ve gotta go.”
I don’t give her a chance to answer and awkwardly maneuver the contraption I’ve been forced to use. Thankfully she doesn’t force me to stop, because let’s face it, now she can.
My brows come together as my frustration builds to a boiling point. All I want to do is throw on my running shoes and go for a run to clear my mind. The fact that I can’t, and probably won’t ever again, causes the air in my lungs to seize. My vision blurs for a moment as I deprive my body of the oxygen it so desperately needs.
“Get your shit together,” I scold myself.
Months ago, I was helping my team clear out buildings, running head first into high-stress situations. Now I’m in a wheelchair, having a pity party for one and down a fucking leg.
My nose flares as I breathe in the cold air pressing on my skin. I squeeze my hands around the metal handrim and close my eyes like the shrink taught me. Thankfully, he warned me that this would happen and emphasized that I needed to learn how to calm myself down.
A few more breaths ease the pressure in my chest and head. Opening my eyes, I note the snowflakes coming down on me. Some melt as soon as they touch my skin, and others last a moment longer on the monkey suit I’m wearing.
I need to get home before I literally get stuck in this shit. I look around the parking lot and work my way to the taxi driver who brought me to the church. Once I’m settled in the seat, the man stows my wheelchair in the trunk, and I direct him to my place. As we drive away I realize I’m officially an orphaned, one-legged man. No magic will bring my mom or my leg back. This cursed life of mine is my reality.
The familiar sting forms in the backs of my eyes as the tree line becomes a blur. I scrub my face with my hands. “I need a fucking drink.”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The sound penetrates the cobwebs that have moved into my brain. I throw my arm over my eyes, hoping it will go away.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
A groan rips from my throat, dry and chalky from my long night. An ache in my thigh springs me into action, and after a few tries, I sit up on the couch. I rub my face and sigh. When I open my eyes, I spot the open bottle of Jack on the table. My gaze moves to the wheelchair parked next to me, and like every morning I wake up, I’m reminded that my nightmare isn’t a dream.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I scratch my bare chest and glance at the door. “Persistent aren’t we?” I yell, hoping that whoever is on the other side of the door can hear me. I briefly consider putting on shorts over my boxer briefs.
“Fuck it. They came for a show. I’ll give them one,” I grumble to myself. I have few guests these days, and I don’t remember telling anyone they could come over. I climb into the wheelchair and make my way to the door so I can tell the person to go to hell.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I pull open the door. “Holy shit, you don’t fucking give up do you?” The words are out of my mouth before my gaze lands on an angel.
I stare. Her eyes dance around with amusement. They’re the color of caramel before they darken a fraction. Full, kissable lips tip up before they freeze. I can’t see her body under the parka she’s cocooned in, but I imagine it soft, firm, and lean, in all the right places.
The air around us crackles with my immediate attraction.
Surprise fills me at the sensation of blood rushing south. My dick springs to life, rising to full mast in the two seconds that have passed. Her eyes drop down to my erection, and her lips part a fraction.
“Well that answers that. Here I thought I broke my dick when I lost my leg. Maybe we can take it for a spin to see if all of it works?” The words are crude, but I am overcome with relief over my erection to even care.
The cold from outside penetrates my bare skin like sharp needles driving into my flesh. When I look up from my hard-on, I note the flurries falling around her, creating an angelic touch to her beautiful face.
None of it matters anyway. A fantasy really. No woman in her right mind would want to be with this broken man. Hell, until a moment ago, I didn’t think I could get it up anymore. I can’t even remember the last time I had morning wood.
“I’m sure you didn’t come here to see the crippled vet experiencing his first erection since he was blown up. What do you want?” I grind my teeth, ignoring how my dick twitches in this angel’s direction.
Her lips thin into a hard line as one of her eyebrows raises toward her hairline. I watch her eyes take me in one more time and annoyance flashes across her face. “Mr. Prinz, my name is Isabel Marchant. I was hired by Ms. Potts to be your physical therapist. May I please come in, or would you like me to take you to the hospital for frostbite? I’m sure the nurses would love to see what it looks like on a man’s erection.”
I laugh. Really, what else could I do? This gorgeous woman is barely affected by my awful demeanor. I know how much of an ass I’m being, and I really don’t care either. “I suppose if I tell you I’m no longer in need of your services—”
“Mr. Prinz—”
“Viktor. Please call me Viktor.” I tell her because I’m dying to hear my name tumble from her plump lips.
“Okay, Viktor. I’m not going away. I’m here to get you back on your feet.”
“Foot,” I snap, and my hands form fists on my lap. “Singular. I only have one foot, or are you blind?”
Isabel’s head tilts to the side, and she steps closer to me. The smell of her perfume wafts toward me, and I bite back a groan. “I’m not going away, Viktor. You want to be an ass? Go right ahead, it’s no skin off my back. You aren’t the first, nor do I expect you to be the last. What I do expect is for you to let me do my job. My job is to get you better. My job is to get you on your feet because guess what? A prosthetic foot will make it plural. Now, if you’re done wallowing in self-pity, let me in so we can move things along.”
Now it’s my turn to stare. I’m not at all happy with this situation, but the woman is sexy as fuck when she’s riled up. I should close the door in her face, but my mind is racing for ways to push more of her buttons. God she’s probably a tiger in bed too. My dick jumps again at the mere thought.
“How about you go put on some clothes. Shorts preferably, so I can see what I’m working with, and I’ll finish grabbing my things?” Isabel’s tongue runs along her lower lip, and a small flush of pink covers her cheeks. She’s not entirely immune to my state of undress, as she wants me to believe.
“Well, then I should stay like this so you can see what you’re working with. I’d hate to obstruct your view.” This is the most tantalizing experience I’ve had in months. It doesn’t matter that my balls want to shrivel up because her earlier comment of frostbite wasn’t entirely far off. I’m like a peacock wanting, no, needing to strut my feathers for this woman who’s evoked emotions outside of my normal angry and resentful self. My fingers itch with the need to see if her skin is as soft as it looks.
When Isabel leans toward me and her gloved hands come forward, I imagine biting the tip of the material and stripping her hands bare before nibbling on each finger. Only that’s not what I do, because I find myself rolled back into my house. Isabel steps back and grabs the handle to a suitcase I now notice for the first time. She places it inside my house before turning on her boots and walking away.
For a split second I panic. This woman I don’t even know—and have spoken with for merely minutes—cannot leave. The feral need to get to know her hits me and scares the fuck out of me. It’s not like we can have anything. For all I know she’s married with kids. I don’t know anything about her.
Plus, a woman like Isabel Marchant does not fall for a broken man. With an angelic face and a steel rod for a spine, she deserves a real man. A whole man. Something I no longer am…