She untied the leather belt and peeled the black silk off him, wanting to scream as he rolled back and forth to help her while grunting in pain. When they were finished getting the thing out from under him, blood seeped down his side.
That beautiful duvet was going to be ruined, she thought, not giving a shit.
"You've lost a lot of blood." She rolled up the heavy robe.
"I know." He closed his eyes, head sinking into the pillow. His naked body was going through a series of flickering seizures, the trembling in his thighs, stomach, and pectorals making the mattress jiggle.
She dumped the robe in the tub and came back. "Did they clean you before they dressed the wounds?"
"I don't know."
"I probably should check at some point."
"Give me an hour. By then the bleeding will stop." He took a deep breath and grimaced. "Mary... they had to."
"What?" She leaned down.
"They had to do this. I don't..." Another breath was followed by a groan. "Don't be angry with them."
Screw. That.
"Mary," he said strongly, his dull eyes focusing on her. "I gave them no choice."
"What did you do?"
"It's over. And you are not to be angry with them." His stare fuzzed out again.
As far as she was concerned, she could be anything the hell she wanted at those bastards.
"Mary?"
"Don't worry." She stroked his cheek, wishing she could wash the blood off of his face. When he flinched at the light contact, she pulled back. "Won't you please let me get you something?"
"Just talk to me. Read to me..."
There were a few contemporary books on the shelves next to his DVD wasteland, and she went over to the hardcovers. She grabbed a Harry Potter, the second one, and pulled a chair up next to the bed. It was hard to concentrate at first because she kept measuring his respiration, but eventually she found a rhythm and so did he. His breathing slowed and the spasms stopped.
When he was asleep, she closed the book. His forehead was wrinkled, his lips pale and tight. She hated that the pain was with him even in the rest he'd found.
Mary felt the years peel away.
She saw her mother's yellow bedroom. Smelled disinfectant. Heard labored, desperate breaths.
Here she was again, she thought. Another bedside. Another's suffering. Helpless.
She looked around the room, eyes landing on the Madonna and Child over the dresser. In this context the painting was art, not icon, part of a museum-quality collection and used only as decoration.
So she didn't have to hate the damn thing. And she wasn't scared of it, either.
The Madonna statue in her mother's room had been different. Mary had despised it, and the instant Cissy Luce's body had left the house, that piece of plaster had been in the garage. Mary hadn't had the heart to break it, but she'd wanted to.
The next morning she'd taken the thing to Our Lady and dropped it off. Same with the crucifix. As she'd driven out of the church's parking lot, the triumph she'd felt, the veritable fuck you to God, had been heady, the only good feeling that came to her for a long time. The rush hadn't lasted, though. When she'd returned to the house, all she'd seen was the shadow on the wall where the cross had been and the dust-free spot on the floor where the statue had stood.
Two years later, to the very day she'd dropped those objects of devotion off, she'd been diagnosed with leukemia.
Logically she knew she wasn't cursed because she'd dumped the things. There were 365 days to hit on the calendar, and like a ball on a roulette wheel, the announcement of her disease had had to land on one of them. In her heart, though, she sometimes believed otherwise. Which made her hate God even more.
Hell... He didn't have time to spare a miracle for her mother, who'd been faithful. But He went out of His way to punish a sinner like her. Go figure.
"You ease me," Rhage said.
Her eyes snapped to his. She cleared her head by taking his hand. "How are you?"
"Better. Your voice soothes me."
It had been the same with her mother, she thought. Her mother had like the sound of her talking, too.