Page 148 of Healed

He never pushed me to talk. He never asked for an explanation or details. He simply let me process what was happening to me, and for that I was grateful.

I wanted to open up to him, but every time I thought about letting him back in, a fresh wave of mortification washed over me.

I knew I was hurting him, but I couldn’t let him back near me. Not yet. Not until I had processed everything.

Sometimes, when one of the others had convinced me to sit up for a while, I would catch glimpses of him through the half-open door.

He’d be exactly where I had left him.

Sometimes he was talking quietly with Dante, discussing club business in low voices so they didn’t disturb me. Other times he simply sat there, elbows on his knees, staring at the opposite wall.

He never once looked impatient.

Never once sighed because I wasn’t healing fast enough.

Never once asked when I was going to come back to him.

If one of the old ladies walked out carrying an untouched plate of food, he quietly took it from them and disappeared downstairs. Half an hour later another appeared, usually something completely different, as though he was convinced the problem wasn’t that I couldn’t eat, but simply that he hadn’t found the right thing yet.

One morning I heard him arguing with Heather because she’d made me tea.

“She doesn’t like Yorkshire Tea,” he muttered.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone likes Yorkshire Tea.”

“Not her. She hasn’t since she was fourteen. She always said it tasted like someone had wrung a sweaty shirt into a mug and added a dash of sugar to it.”

“That’s… oddly specific.”

“That’s Gabriella. She has her own tea in the cupboard with her name on it. Forget it, I’ll make it myself.”

An hour later, another mug appeared beside my bed.

PG Tips.

Perfect colour, perfect amount of milk, and, after I tasted it, perfect strength.

I couldn’t bring myself to drink all of it, but I drank what I could and opened the door, handing the cup back to Vienna myself. He accepted it with a smile, and another brew appeared every couple of hours from that moment on.

It was three days after the attack when Rachel came into my room. She didn’t utter a word, she simply walked over to the curtains and threw them open, blinding me with the harsh light.

“Rachel,” I hissed, shielding my eyes. “What the fuck?”

“Get up,” she said simply, rooting through my drawers and throwing clothes at me.

“I don’t want to.”

“Don’t care,” she replied. “Where do you keep your underwear?”

“I don’t need fresh underwear.”

“Fine,” she said, holding her hands in the air and leaving the drawers open. “That’s absolutely fine by me. Go out in dirty knickers. Better yet, go commando. It makes no difference. Do you want to brush your hair?”

“I do not.”

“That’s also okay. Either way, Gabriella, we are leaving this bedroom.”

“I don’t want to, Rachel!” I snapped.