Broken Songbird (Vicious Games #2)

34. Chapter 34

D el and I are in the hospital for another two days before Dad discharges us. We could have left yesterday, but I think the extra day was more to appease Mum’s hesitations than anything else.

Enzo arrives early in the morning, getting Del’s discharge sorted out in quick time, and catches Mum and Dad just as she’s leaving.

Creed arrived shortly after my parents and helped us with my discharge by pushing me in the wheelchair to the car and lifting me into the backseat. He promises my mum that he’ll come for dinner at some point this week, then he kisses me goodbye.

Dad lowered the dosage of the pain meds, but they still make me pretty drowsy, so I’m almost lulled into a nap from the ride, but I manage to stay conscious until we arrive at the house. Dad helps me limp out of the car while Mum takes the bags filled with a multitude of bouquets.

“Are you up for a light meal so you can take the antibiotics before you rest?” Dad asks as we enter the house.

“I could eat,” I say, concentrating on shuffling slowly toward the kitchen. My thigh doesn’t hurt, but I can feel the slightest tugging sensation on my skin with every step, so I’m taking it easy. I really don’t want to bust open my stitches.

What actually hurts the worst is my torso, especially because I’m limping and the imbalance makes my body jolt with every step, which twinges in my ribs, as well as the other contusions over my body. I’m one big bruise at this point.

Mum’s already put all the bouquets in vases and is placing them around the house as Dad and I make it to the small breakfast table in the kitchen. It’s a relief to sit down, and I’m delighted to see that the chef has prepared some of my favourite things—a huge caprese salad, and a charcuterie of dreams.

There’s so much cheese. Heartbreaker would love this spread.

Mum joins us as I’m picking my way through the food, making a plate for myself.

We have a lovely, normal dinner. It feels like just another day—the food is great, and my parents are talking about their various ventures and asking me about school. Mum even has idle gossip from her office that her assistant told her.

The normalcy releases so much tension in my body, and I think it does the same for my parents.

After Dad gives me my antibiotics and instructed me to take the pain medication once I’m in bed, I hobble my way through the house on my own toward the guest room.

I’m puffed out by the time I get there, and sit on the bed for a moment, before deciding I want to wash off the hospital grime with a hot shower before I sleep for a very long time.

I gather the items I need from my bag and take them to the bathroom, leaving them on the counter along with my new phone, and turn on the shower. This room’s ensuite is smaller than my room upstairs, not by much, and has all dark tiles instead of the white in mine. Doesn’t have a window, either.

I don’t think too much about it as I turn my attention to stripping out of my sweats and T-shirt, then carefully unwrap my thigh bandage. I won’t need to cover it from today, but I will need to wear loose clothes, so I don’t tug on the stitches until they’re removed.

I glance up, catching my naked reflection in the mirror. Jesus Christ, my skin is covered in varying stages of bruising, and scabbed-over cuts and scrapes. My right side, particularly my ribs, being the worst of the bruising. At this point I need stocks in arnica cream production.

The room is steaming now, so I take my toiletries and step around the glass shower wall into the dim alcove. I place my things on the built-in shelf and test the water with my hand, then step into the spray, tilting my face up so I don’t get my still-plaited hair wet, and closing my eyes as the water flows onto my face.

Instinctually, I hold my breath. I hear nothing but persistent water falling, pattering on the tiled floor.

Tile, not porcelain.

My arms tingle at my sides like phantom bee-stings. Or the hairs being pulled. No, there’s no tape.

My lungs burn with the lack of oxygen. My legs tremble.

Don’t move.

Don’t move.

Don’t move.

His voice rings in my head over and over, and I open my mouth. Water rushes in and I choke.

Can’t move.

Panic seizes my muscles and I’m frozen. I can’t move .

I’m drowning again.

Fuck, no, not again.

This time when I twist out of the spray, my face meets cooler air. Relief rushes through me as I fill my lungs with precious oxygen. Realisation that I’m not in that place slams into me and I stumble away from the water, heaving in air, until my back hits a wall. I slide down to the floor, bringing my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, tuck my chin to my chest and sob.

I cry so hard I hyperventilate, which makes sharp pain knife through my broken ribs. I lift my head and open my eyes, trying to calm my breathing. The walls are closing in. Dark tile walls. Too dark. The light seems to be dimming. There’s no window. I’m dizzy, my heartbeat pulsing hard in my temples.

I don’t want to be lost in the dark.

I roll onto shaky knees and drag myself out of the shower, ignoring the constant pain in my body as I escape the collapsing confines and cross to the vanity. Keeping my eyes firmly on the floor, I push myself up enough to pull down the towel, which makes my phone clatter to the floor nearby.

I reach for it and try desperately to unlock it with trembling hands. Once I manage to put in the passcode, I go into my contacts and hit call, putting it on speaker. It only rings twice.

“Scar?” Creed’s voice comes through the phone, and I let out a sob.

“Help,” I cry hoarsely. “Help me.”

I hear the rustling of him moving. “What happened?”

“I…” I’m crying too hard to even tell him.

“I’ll be there soon,” he promises.

“S-Stay,” I say between chattering teeth.

“I’m here, love,” he says.

I close my eyes, listening to him breathing and the other sounds on the line. A door closes and then I hear the wind through the phone.

“My phone’s connecting to my helmet,” he says, and the line goes silent for a few seconds.

Connecting to his helmet?

The roar of his engine comes through the speaker, but it’s weirdly distorted.

“I ordered us new helmets a couple of weeks ago,” Creed says, answering my unspoken question, his voice crisp but slightly robotic. “They arrived yesterday.”

I force out a noise to let him know I heard him and then listen to his motorcycle engine growl as it climbs through gears.

“How are you doing, princess?” he says after a while.

I’m breathing easier, and I’m not dizzy anymore. I still have my eyes closed, but now that I can think a little clearer, I notice the persistent ache in my knees and wrists from holding myself up.

“I’m c-cold,” I chatter out. “And wet.”

“Do you have anything nearby that’s dry?” Creed asks.

“There’s a t-towel somewhere.”

“Good. Can you see it?”

“I can’t open my eyes,” I whisper.

“That’s fine,” Creed reassures immediately. “Do you remember if it’s near you?”

“It is.”

“Okay, reach out until you feel it. Go slow, be careful of your ribs.”

I do as instructed, sliding my hand in the direction of where I remember the towel was. I breathe out a sigh when my fingers meet the soft, dry fabric and grab it, dragging it around my body.

“I got it,” I whisper, rolling to lie on my left side, curled around my phone.

“I’m at the end of your street,” Creed says after a while. I don’t know how long it’s been, but probably not long. “How are you doing?”

“I’m here,” is all I manage.

I listen to his bike slow down and idle, then a second later, I hear my mum’s voice on the intercom, and then the gates sliding open. Creed’s bike rumbles again as he rides down the driveway and then the engine goes silent.

“Just disconnecting,” Creed says, his voice distant. There are voices and rustling sounds on the line, then everything echoes as he’s probably inside. I think he says something like ‘give us a minute,’ then I hear knocking further in the house.

“That’s me at the door of the room,” Creed says into the phone.

“I’m in the bathroom,” I whisper.

The door opens and closes, then heavy footsteps approach. The beeping of the call ending is followed by the thunk of something heavy being placed on the vanity. The shower finally turns off and then warm arms wrap around me on the floor.

“Hi, baby,” Creed whispers into my hair.

His sweet-smoke and leather scent settles my body as I pull his arm further around me and start sobbing again.

He lets me cry until I’m hiccupping, then applies firm but careful pressure on my ribs to reduce the pain in my side until I’m breathing normally again.

“Let’s get you up,” Creed says softly and uses his strength to move me himself until I’m sitting upright on the floor. Creed moves around the bathroom, and a tap goes on and off. “Take this.”

I peel open my heavy eyes, the dim world coming back to focus. Creed is sitting on the floor in front of me with a small, encouraging smile and a glass of water. He’s dressed in a plain black hooded sweatshirt and grey sweatpants. He didn’t stop to put on appropriate riding clothes before coming here.

I take the glass gingerly and drink half of it.

“I’m a mess,” I say eventually, eyes trained on the glass in my hands.

“You’re my mess.”

His words make me look at him.

Soft-eyes.

“I won’t be going anywhere,” he promises.

My bottom lip trembles, my eyes stinging with fresh tears, but I hold it together and nod.

“Tell me what happened,” Creed asks gently.

I drink the rest of the water and pass him the glass, then tell him about freaking out in the shower. He listens intently, his focus never wavering.

“I can’t take a bath with the stitches,” I explain.

The mention of them triggers me to stretch out my leg and check them. I breathe a sigh of relief. In that whole ordeal, I thankfully didn’t bust any of the stitches open.

“How about we get in together, you sit or stand out of the spray, and I’ll help you?” he offers.

“Okay,” I whisper.

Creed gets off the floor and turns the shower back on, then strips out of his clothes, which consists of just his sweatshirt and pants.

“Were you naked when I called?” I ask as he takes the tie from his hair and shakes the strands out.

“I was,” he says, then bends to scoop me off the floor.

“I’m sorry.”

He sets me on my feet. “You call, I’m there, princess.”

He pulls the towel from my body and puts it back on the vanity. A new object on the vanity catches my attention.

“New helmet,” I say, admiring the beautifully sleek, matte-black motorbike helmet.

“Yours is pink,” he comments.

That makes me smile as he takes my hand and leads me to the shower. My smile drops quickly, and I squeeze Creed’s hand tighter as we cross the threshold of the shower, but I follow him further into the watery alcove. He doesn’t let go of my hand as he steps under the spray. I start violently shaking.

“I… I need to sit down,” I say.

Creed nods and we both sink to the floor. I take a second to just process everything around me, letting my breathing even out and the trembling calm.

Once I seem under control, I let go of Creed’s hand so he can reach for toiletries. Using a small pile of wash cloths, we work together to get me clean.

“Turn, facing the wall,” he instructs. “I’ll wash your hair.”

He ducks out of the shower as I do as instructed. He comes back in with the cup from before and sits behind me, unravelling my plait, and finger-combing through the length gently.

He makes me tip my head back as he pours water over my hair, completely avoiding my face. The process is surprisingly soothing as his fingers massage the shampoo into my scalp and then he combs the conditioner through the length after.

Once he’s done with my hair, he washes himself quickly and then turns the water off before scooping me off the floor again and walking out of the shower.

He wraps me in a towel, then himself, and starts towel-drying my hair when this whole situation dawns on me, twisting my stomach.

“He took my ability to shower myself,” I say out loud.

“Fucking asshole,” Creed comments, squeezing the water from my hair with the towel.

“What if I can’t shower ever again without having a breakdown?” I look at Creed in the mirror. “You can’t do this forever.”

He laughs, the sound deep in his chest. “Oh, but I can.”

“Creed, seriously.”

He catches my eye in the mirror. “I’ll do this until you can yourself.”

“I don’t—”

“Nope,” he says, cutting off my argument. He stops his drying and turns me to face him. “I know you’re about to say you don’t want to be a burden. You’re never a burden. Never have been and never will be.”

“But I am ,” I blurt out.

“Fine, then you’re my burden. My mess. You gave me your broken pieces, remember? I’m a greedy bastard, princess. You can’t have them back.”

“There you go again with the poetry,” I comment with a watery smile, trying not to cry again.

He rolls his eyes. “Just let me look after you, woman.”

I reach up and cup his face. “I should be looking after you .”

“You do,” he says, pulling me against him, wrapping his arms around me. “We look after each other. That’s the whole point. It’s not supposed to be one-sided, and it never will be.”

I tuck my head under his chin, laying my ear against his chest and wrap my arms around him. He kisses the top of my head and pulls me closer. We stand like that until my body starts aching, then we go through the motions of getting ready for bed.

Creed dresses back into his sweatpants, helps me dress, then puts me on the bed, brings me water so I can take my medication, collects our phones and sets them on the side table, then climbs into bed next to me.

I curl up in his open arm, using his shoulder as a pillow, wedging my leg between his and hugging him close.

“I love you,” I mumble into his chest.

“Love you too, princess,” he says as we both drift off.