Hansel 4(17)

I look down at her, trying to get an idea of her feelings for me at this moment. Is she trying to shelter me? Why would she do that?

“Do you want me to go?” she asks.

“Um, yeah.” But it’s a lie. Even as she slides her hand out of my arm, I ache to grab her back. I’d like nothing more than to have her holding onto me—even in here. She gives a little wave and says, “I’ll be right outside.”

I straddle the toilet, so I don’t have to reach down and aim myself.

I don’t look at any of the mirrors as I use my foot to flush and take slow, small steps back over to the door. I’m fucking weak as shit.

I’m going for the doorknob with my right hand when it opens. Leah is right there, smiling that small, kind, knowing smile she has and offering her hand.

“I know you might not need it, but it makes me feel useful,” she tells me as we head back toward the bed.

Her wrist, tucked between my bicep and my forearm, seems to burn my skin.

We get to the bed, and she produces a small, plastic stool. “Step up on this, and I’ll help you get back in.”

I frown. “Have we done this before?”

Her cheeks color. “Yeah. Once, yesterday. I know you don’t remember it.”

“You know that, do you?” I ask, stepping up onto the stool and dropping my ass onto the side of the bed. “How do you know that?”

The pink stain on her cheeks darkens. “Just a hunch.”

She steps closer to me, grabs my forearm, and tries to lift my legs onto the bed. I don’t need her help, but I don’t bother to correct her. I brace some of my weight against her as I work my way back against the pillows. She props a few up under my hands, and all the while, I watch her—wanting her so damn much my chest aches.

My cock stirs underneath the sheets. My hand twitches, already thinking of stroking one out, and the twitch sends pain up my arm.

I slide my eyes to hers. “What’s up with my hands? How bad?” I ask quietly.

I see the hesitation on her face. Nervousness. I hate putting her through this bullshit. My bullshit. “Come on, hit me with it. They’re just hands.” I smirk, even though my head has started pounding like a fucker.

She catches her lower lip between her teeth, and I shift my hips, hoping my boner will go down.

“Your right hand had a bunch of small fragments of…glass in it. They had to use this special machine to see where they were, and then a surgeon had to take them out. You’ve got eighty-two stitches, mostly in the top of your hand, and in the knuckles.” She lets a soft sigh out. “You broke three of them, and a finger, but they were able to be re-set without surgery.”

I let out a low whistle. Jesus. “And the left?”

She looks uncomfortable. Or just sad? She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and meets my eyes. “There were lots of pieces in it, too. One knuckle was shattered. There’s a little plate in it.” She takes a deep breath. “Also, Luke—there was a long shard of glass in your wrist. The doctor said that it was…pushed there. Really deep. That’s what happened when I tried to get you to the car. It nicked an artery. It bled so much.” Her face pales, and she licks her lips. “It also…hurt some of your nerves.”

“What do you mean?”

“They aren’t sure if it will heal…the way it was.” She takes a tiny breath. “Are you a writer, Luke? Because someone called, and—”

“What?” I squeeze my eyes shut.

“They just said did you have the manuscript ready. Are you a writer?”

I inhale. “I’m a ghost writer.”

“You write ghost stories?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I help people write their stories, and sometimes I write books for famous authors. When they don’t have time.” I write my own stuff, too—mostly mysteries—but I don’t want to tell her that just yet.

I scrutinize her face, waiting for the surprised, impressed expression I’m usually met with. Instead, her features tense.

“Do you write with a pencil?” she asks.

I scoff. “No. Hell no. That would take forever.”

Tears gleam in her eyes, and I feel a sinking sensation in my gut. “It’s your thumb, Luke. Your thumb…and your forefinger on that hand. Where the glass was…”

I shut my eyes, trying to imagine that reflective fragment. Why I would have pushed it into my own wrist.

“Where the glass was,” she tries one more time, “they say you might have lost the use of those fingers.”

When I open my eyes and look at her, I find her cheeks are wet with tears. For me. I who took her virginity and disappeared. I who used her as a talisman for years to fill the voids inside me. I who treated her like shit after she found me at the club. I who forced her into hurting me so I could fuck her. I who put her through what must have been terror at Mother’s house.