Page 18 of The Cost of Silence

It’s the first time I hear someone talk to Nico without fear or caution. The effect is startling.

“Come,” the doctor says to me, his voice easing into a warmth that reaches beneath my tension. “Let’s move somewhere with better light. My eyes are not what they were.”

Nico’s attention snaps back to me. “I’ll show you the room.”

I follow him down a short hallway, every step pulling at the bruised muscles along my ribs. The pain pulses in a steady rhythm, but I keep quiet. Nico glances back once, eyes narrowing as if he can read every wince I try to hide.

He opens a door.

The room inside is simple but beautiful, with soft light, dark wood furniture, and a thick charcoal-gray quilt folded across a king-sized bed. Minimal but warm, inviting. The kind of space meant for rest, not for guests. It doesn’t match any spare room I’ve ever seen.

“This is yours for the night,” he says quietly.

I don’t know what to do with the soft note in his voice, so I look away. Our pattern of sniping and bickering sits easier with me, safer.

The doctor steps inside, clicking on the bedside lamp. “I’ll take over from here,” he tells Nico.

For a beat, Nico doesn’t move. He stands in the doorway like a sentry, eyes sweeping the corners of the room before settling on me again. That same unreadable tension sits in his jaw. Like he doesn’t want to leave but knows he should.

“I’ll be right outside,” he says.

It shouldn’t make me feel steadier. But it does.

He steps back, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

The doctor’s smile returns as he sets his bag on the bed. “You can sit, dear.”

I lower myself carefully onto the mattress, my breath catching as pain ripples along my side.

“Ribs?” he asks knowingly.

“Yeah. Mostly the left.”

He nods, already pulling out a small penlight. “Let’s start from the head down.”

His touch is practiced, gentle, the kind of gentleness that comes from decades of doing this. He checks my pupils, asks me to follow his finger, checks my breathing, palpates along my ribs with expert precision.

I hiss when he presses a tender spot.

“Mm-hmm,” he hums, sympathetic. “You’ll be sore for a while, but nothing feels cracked.”

Relief washes through me slowly, warm and unsteady. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been bracing for the worst.

“You’re lucky,” he adds. “Another inch lower and he might have done real damage.”

I swallow hard. “That’s comforting.”

His eyes soften with understanding. “You’re safe now. These boys may cause trouble, but they’re very good at stopping it too.”

“Boys?” I echo.

He laughs under his breath. “I delivered Nico and his brothers. Known them since before they could walk. I’ve stitched them up more times than their father cared to count, God rest his soul.”

Something in my chest tightens, curiosity, intrigue, something more personal. “Were they always like this?”

He gives me a look full of mischief and affection. “You mean intense? Impossible? Overprotective?”

Heat rushes up my cheeks. “Maybe.”