I clutched my wounded finger to my chest and bowed my head as the sobs shook me. I didn’t want to be like this—didn’t want to be weak and needy and sick but somehow I couldn’t help it. The events of my childhood had left me raw and warped inside—flawed in a way that seemed impossible to fix. I was scarred…damaged and I didn’t blame my partner for wanting nothing to do with me now. I didn’t want anything to do with me either.
I wished I was dead.
Suddenly I heard Salt come up behind me.
“Andi,” he said and his deep voice was worried. “What happened—what is wrong?”
“I…I’m fine,” I choked out, trying desperately to get control of myself. I didn’t want him to see me like this. Didn’t want him to think I was even weaker than he already did. “I just…I cut myself but only a little bit. It’s a really small wound—I’m okay—you can go now.”
“Bullshit,” he said. “Is not a small wound—there is blood everywhere!”
“Is there?” I looked down and saw he was right—the pale green celery and bright orange carrots I had been cutting were now spattered with gory droplets of scarlet.
“Yes. So let me see.” He spun me around and tried to take my wounded hand but I backed away, keeping my distance.
“I told you, I’m fine,” I said, wishing my voice sounded stronger. “Now please, would you just go?”
“I am not going anywhere until you let me look at your finger,” he said firmly. “Come.” He held out his hand for mine but I still resisted.
“No.” I lifted my chin. “You’re not my partner anymore and you’re not responsible for me.”
“I am responsible for you,” he growled. Then his voice changed—went low and soft and commanding. “Mishka,” he said. “Let me see your finger.”
“Don’t.” I looked up at him, my heart beating so hard I thought it would burst. “Don’t do that.”
“I must.” Salt cupped my cheek in his big hand gently. “Mishka,” he said again. “Show Papa your hurt finger. Let me make it better.”
For a moment a blinding rage filled me—how dare he do this to me? How dare he use my weakness against me? Then I looked up at him, looked into his eyes. They were filled with tenderness and desire—he was looking at me the same way he had at the Institute. The way he had when he rocked me and bathed me and read me bedtime stories. There was no lie in his eyes—no deception. Only the desire to heal and protect me.
Wordlessly, I held out my wounded hand.
“Hmm.” Salt examined me worriedly. The bleeding had mostly stopped because I’d been putting pressure on it but it was still a long, ugly cut right up the middle of my ring finger. How in the world I’d managed to slice myself in such an awkward way I didn’t know but there it was and it hurt like hell.
“Salt—” I began but he shook his head.
“Call me Papa. And come to sink—let me tend you.”
He walked me over to the kitchen sink and ran cold water over my cut. This made it bleed again but Salt wrapped it firmly in a paper towel and had me hold it tightly while he went for the first aid supplies. By the time he brought the Neosporin and bandaids, the cut had mostly stopped bleeding again. Salt tended the wound and bandaged me carefully.
“There,” he said at last, eyeing his handiwork with apparent satisfaction. “Should heal with no problems now.”
“Thank you,” I said, not meeting his eyes.
“Thank you, what?” Salt asked sternly. When I wouldn’t answer him, he lifted my chin so that I had to meet his eyes.
“Thank you…Papa,” I whispered at last.
“That’s good. Very good, my little mishka.”
Without warning, he swung me up into his arms and carried me back to the living room.
I wanted to protest but before I could, he had settled on the couch with me in his lap. I thought he was going to kiss me but instead he pulled me against him and positioned my head on his chest. Then he stroked my hair and held me close. His big hands felt wonderful, moving over my trembling back and shoulders, petting my hips and arms and thighs, almost as though he couldn’t bear to stop touching me.