Sin & Suffer

Cleo shifted in my arms, choosing her words. “I guessed.”

“You guessed?” Grasshopper’s face fell into shock. “I’ve been waiting for someone to connect the dots for fucking years and no one ever did, yet you’re here for two seconds and guessed? How the hell did you do that?” Looking between us, he shook his head in disbelief. “What gave me away?”

“Can we talk about this later?” I growled.

Cleo ignored me, squirming in her blankets until they tightened like a python around her. “It was your eyes. And then your mouth.”

Grasshopper blinked. “Huh.”

“When Arthur took me to meet Wallstreet, I connected the dots. He reminded me of someone. He reminded me of you.”

Grasshopper snorted. “Well, fuck me.”

My arms burned and the smudginess in my head only grew worse. “No matter how much I’m enjoying this entertaining conversation, there’s a time and place for this, and this isn’t it.”

Wanting nothing more than to crash in bed beside Cleo, I snapped, “Enough. When I can think fucking straight, then we’ll talk.”

Grasshopper nodded. “Sure thing. My bad.”

“Wait. You can’t think straight?” Cleo’s eyes zeroed in on mine.

I groaned.

Damn woman.

Grasshopper clucked his tongue. “Doctor first, then questions, Butterbean.”

My stomach snarled with possession, but I let the nickname slide. He’d helped divert a line of questioning that had no right to be discussed tonight.

Mo appeared in the foyer from my office. His jeans were dirt-scuffed and his jacket reeked of booze from creating bottle bombs. “You guys ready to be poked and prodded? Doc’s waiting.” He tapped a nonexistent watch on his wrist. “Minutes are like fucking gold with the rate she’s charging.”

I hoisted Cleo a little higher. “Lead the way.”

“She’s worth every penny, Kill.” Grasshopper nudged my shoulder. “Majored in brain and neurological synapses. Done a few papers on the lingering effects of concussions.”

My heart turned from a crawl to a run. It wasn’t just the short-term effects scaring me shitless—it was the long-term problems I might face.

Of course, hoping Cleo didn’t put two and two together and get a million and fucking four was like wishing for a damn genie to grant three wishes.

“Neurological expert?” she asked, her voice wobbling with worry.

“Don’t worry about it.” Hugging her closer, I asked Mo, “Where is this mystical practitioner?”

Mo pointed toward the lounge. “That way.”

I moved as straight and as streamline as I could with the walls bowing and swaying.

Leaving the foyer, I stepped into the open-plan lounge. The lights were dimmed, highlighting abstract artwork. The large space was both designer and comforting with sliding doors all along one side, a kitchen equipped with every mod-con a person could need, and an area for dining and entertaining.

The blackness outside made the glass doors act like a mirror, reflecting Cleo and myself as I marched across the carpet in muddy boots.

The dining table was my destination, along with the stranger waiting in a pristine white coat.

The woman watched as I stopped before her.

Her coiled brown hair, basic makeup, and wide blue eyes hinted at intelligence and no-nonsense.

The moment I stopped, she smiled professionally and pushed off from the table. “You must be Mr. Killian. I’m Doctor Laine.” Her attention dropped to Cleo in my arms. “Please, if you’ll put the patient on the table, I can begin tending to her.”

The thought of putting Cleo down was a lance to my fucking gut.

Cleo stroked my chest, soothing me. “Thank you, Art. Thank you for bringing me home safely. You can let me go now. I won’t break.”

“You heard the girl,” Doctor Laine said softly. “Best if you leave the rest to me.”

You better know what you’re fucking doing.

The doctor never took her eyes off me as I very carefully deposited Cleo on the table. She winced as I transferred her weight onto the hard wood.

Taking a few steps back, I murmured, “I’m right here.”

My arms felt empty and weightless after carrying her. I ached to pick her back up again and keep her safe.

The black duvet slipped from one of her shoulders, revealing the translucent beauty of her skin marred by shiny scars that would never disappear.

Her flaws could be called ugly—an imperfection to be hidden. But it only made me fall deeper in love with her. She had the strength to bare them—even using them to define how others saw her.

The doctor peered at the blood covering Cleo. Urgency sprang into her tone. “Are you bleeding?”

Cleo shook her head. “No, it’s not mine.” Touching the large bump on her temple, she added, “The only injury is from when they knocked me out.”

My hands curled into fists. My fucking father would pay. He’ll pay a hundred times over.

Turning to face me, the doctor looked over my shoulder at Mo and Grasshopper loitering in the background. “You can go now, gentlemen. If I need anything, I’ll call.”

“Sure thing,” Grasshopper said.

They shuffled immediately to the exit.

I was glad. I didn’t want them seeing Cleo if the doctor asked her to remove the blanket.

I crossed my arms, bracing my legs against the pain, and waited for the doctor to tend to my woman.