Doc (Ruthless Kings MC #7) - K.L. Savage Page 0,27

there are these stitches. No more. I’m not going to let pain stop me.

I can’t.

My left foot drags across the cold linoleum floor and sweat spreads over my neck as the stitches pulse with my heartbeat. I cross my arms over my chest and try to breathe through the agony. That’s all I can do.

You did this to yourself.

I say it again, moving my right foot, then my left, and finally, I’m walking. I’m gasping for air and biting back a moan by the time I get to the door. I glance toward the bed, and it seems so inviting right now.

I don’t deserve rest.

My shoulder thumps against the wall, and I whimper when the small vibrations make their way down to my wounds. My nostrils flare as I breathe in.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

I keep the pace, breathing in and out to try to manage the pain. I tilt my head down and stare at the door handle. How am I going to turn that? This is going to hurt.

You deserve it.

Right. I do deserve it. If I want to get home, I can suffer a little pain. They are feeling more agony right now than I am. I reach for the silver knob, and the cold metal settles on my warm fingers. Doing my best to keep the slightest grip I can, I turn it to the right.

“Oh, God,” I cry, and when I realize how loud my voice is, I bite the inside of my cheeks until I draw blood, and tears well my in eyes. I can’t do it. I can’t. It hurts too much. My arm shakes, and my stiches are tugging. My body is telling me to stop.

Click.

I release my hand as soon as I hear the door unlock and it cracks open. Sweat drips down my face, and my teeth chatter. I feel sick. With a slight thud, my head hits the wall as I take a quick rest.

As I stand here and stare at the messy, unkempt bed, I think about life before I was sold, before the true fear of those men and what they promised to do to me. If Brody touched me and I didn’t want it, what I ended up fleeing from happened to me anyway. Can fate not skip someone? Does it have to loop back around for someone who skims by something horrible that was supposed to happen?

My life wasn’t peaches and cream before all this, but it was something I could handle. Now, I hardly recognize myself when I look in the mirror. All I feel is this need to drive the pain away and every time I cut, there is this moment of clarity, this moment of absolute peace, and my head is in the clouds. It’s euphoria.

But it only lasts a minute before reality comes crashing down.

It’s exhausting, and if I’m going to be a mother, I can’t be that person anymore. I need to be better. I need to heal.

Makes me wonder if I need to listen to Eric and lay in bed.

No, I’ve come this far, and I can’t stop now. Swallowing, I flip my left shoulder and use the wall as leverage as I wiggle my foot between the crack of the door and push it open. I squeeze my body through. Channeling my inner mission impossible, I look left and right to make sure the coast is clear.

Jackpot.

It is.

I hurry down the hall as quick as I can, holding my arms to my chest. As I’m about to take another left, three doctors come around the corner.

Shit.

I dive behind a medical cart and squat. My teeth chatter from nerves, pain, and the chills. My stomach rolls, and the urge to throw up hits me, but if I do, this entire plan goes up in flames, and then they’ll admit me to the psych ward.

A seventy-two hour watch and being admitted into the mental health department are two different things. I’m not crazy.

“No, I think cracking the chest is too invasive for this procedure. Why give the patient a huge scar down the front of their sternum when the new method for this procedure—” a younger doctor gets cut off when the older one chimes in.

“Last time I checked, you weren’t the lead doctor. We do it my way,” he says with a finality that leaves no room for argument as the doctors pass by.

I stay huddled against the wall and a medical cart and watch as they stroll away,