15. Chapter 15

A series of loud pings followed by what sounds like a dog's growl drags me from the deep sleep that I must've slipped into after we got to Deacon's house.

It didn't take me long to figure out that it was his, not some random hole in the wall.

The framed photos of Merrick, Amelia, and even me gave it away.

Plus, the house just felt like a home.

Well-worn furniture and little nick-nacks everywhere.

I have to admit, it's not exactly the type of home I would've imagined Deacon having.

I know he has money.

After everything that happened between Amelia and Merrick, the secret of their chosen professions have been aired for quite some time.

But whereas Merrick gave the aura of tasteful money, Deacon's choice of living conditions is quite the puzzle.

One I'd have to think on.

In the meantime, I need to open my eyes and figure out what that sound is and where it's coming from.

That task is easier said than done, unfortunately.

After so many weeks of fitful, terrified bursts of sleep, the ease with which I drifted off and the depth at which I slept amazes me.

Maybe it's this house.

Or perhaps it's the man.

The one that I can now hear cursing from another room.

I manage to pry my eyes open just in time to see Deacon actually tiptoeing across the living room.

The scene is almost comical.

This big, tattooed, surfer-looking guy is trying to tread lightly across creaky old wooden floorboards.

For some reason, the action makes me smile, and I realize it's the first time I've done so in weeks.

Honestly, I wasn't sure if I'd even remember how.

As I watch, Deacon reaches the front door, jerking it open to reveal a tall, deeply tanned man I'd peg to be in his early to mid thirties.

The man is leaning casually on the doorframe and holds a leather duffle bag in one hand.

Surely, this can't be the doctor.

Never in my life have I seen a doctor that looks like this one.

Along with his bag comes a well-worn leather jacket and dark jeans.

His boots are the type a biker would wear.

With a head full of windblown dark curls and actual dust on his pants, I wonder if he rode some type of bike here.

It would make sense and coincide with the growling sound I heard before.

Definitely a motorcycle.

I watch as Deacon holds his finger up to his lips in the universal sign to be quiet.

That's when the man's gaze turns towards me.

Even through dark sunglasses, I can tell when his eyes land on my curled-up form.

His posture stiffens, and I watch his fist tighten around the handle of the bag.

Immediately, I'm put on guard.

Sitting up as gingerly as possible, I pull my knees to my chest and wait.

I don't think Deacon would've let him get close to the house if he didn't trust him somewhat.

Even so, I eye the man warily at the same time that he eyes me.

As Deacons steps back, the other man enters slowly, boots thudding lightly on the hardwood.

He takes slow, deliberate steps, the way one would when trying to approach a wounded animal.

"I don't think there's much need for quiet, mon gars .

Your guest looks to be awake.

Aren't you, cricket?"

the man says.

His voice is deep and gravelly, adding to his overall roughened appearance.

He's also got a slight accent.

Not much, but it's definitely there.

Based on whatever he called Deacon, I'd say French.

As my brain tries to process the overall picture, it takes me a minute to comprehend what he said.

Did he just call me a cricket? Like the bug??

Deacon turns his head towards me at the man's words.

Letting out a heavy sigh of resignation at my awakened state, he moves closer, whether by design or subconsciously, putting himself in between me and the other man.

Letting out a low chuckle, the man stays where he is but leans his head to the side to glance at me again before straightening and addressing Deacon again.

"You called me, remember?"

he says before following up in a more hushed tone, "Don't worry, mon gars , I won't hurt her."

Reluctantly, Deacon moves to the side and takes a seat in the armchair next to the couch.

Gesturing towards the other man, he says, "Siren, this is Dr.

Aristille.

He's here to look you over."

At my sharp glance, he continues, "He looks scarier than he actually is." Eyes boring into mine, he says, "Trust me." And for some reason that I can't quite explain, I do.

Even so, as the man walks forward and crouches down in front of me, I can't help the involuntary jerk backward.

Aside from a slight dimming of his grin, he gives no other indication that he's noticed.

In a soothing tone, he says, "Easy, cricket.

I'm here to help you.

Let me see how badly you're injured.

I promise not to do anything you don't want me to. "

The sudden softness of his tone belies the tough-as-nails exterior and somehow works to put me at ease.

Lowering my legs slowly until my feet are touching the floor between his spread knees, I give a slight nod.

Taking my consent for what it is, he opens the leather bag at his feet and takes out a small flashlight, going through the motions of shining it in my eyes to test my pupillary responses.

Next, he listens to my heart and lungs, takes my blood pressure, and then my oxygen saturation with a small device on my finger.

It takes everything in me not to freak out when he asks me to lie down on the couch so he can check for any broken ribs.

I take deep breaths, and my head turns towards Deacon's chair as he pushes on different parts of my stomach before allowing me to sit back up slowly.

Gesturing towards my neck, he says, "May I?"

Nodding again, I allow him to run his fingers over the handprint-shaped bruises I know are there.

From my peripheral vision, I see Deacon stiffen in his chair.

His reaction is surprising, considering the doctor isn't hurting me.

His touch on my neck is feather-light, and even though it's not menacing in any way, I can't help the jitters that come with having another man's hands on me.

Quickly enough, he pulls them away, after turning my face this way and that, and I see some of the tension leave Deacon's body.

For some reason, the sight dispels some of my unease.

"Well, cricket … my professional opinion is that you've got a mild concussion, a few burst blood vessels in your left eye, a busted lip, and lots of cuts and bruises.

The older cuts are already healing.

The fresher ones, along with the bruises, will heal in time.

You're also severely dehydrated and probably malnourished.

Aside from that, I think you're okay."

After a short pause, he adds, "Is there anywhere else you'd like me to check before I go?"

I know what he's asking.

Do I want him to do a rape kit or some type of vaginal exam.

And the answer to that is hell no .

I was violated, yes.

But I've been violated before.

I'll live.

Shaking my head, I say, "No, thank you.

I'm fine."

He stares at me intently for a long moment before finally saying, "You will be, cricket, you will be.

And you can call me Theo, by the way."

After another moment, he stands up, brushing a cloud of dust off his pants, and motions to Deacon to follow him to the room next door.

If I had to guess, probably the kitchen.

While they talk, I lay my head back against the couch and try to breathe past the lump that's formed in my throat.

I'm not a crier; never have been.

Unless you counted the tears I shed over music.

As a rule, though, I never made a habit of crying.

Not before I met Dante, at least.

I cried when Amelia got shot, and we didn't know whether she was gonna make it, but aside from that incident, I haven't cried since I escaped the first time.

I thought the period of my life that involved Dante was over, and I swore I'd never shed another tear because of that bastard until I was taken again.

Even though I know I've gotten away a second time, the urge to let loose more useless tears is nearly overwhelming.

I don't know why.

It's not like it'll change anything.

Closing my eyes, I try my best to push away the memory of the night that kicked off my years of torment and the first time I ever cried over a man.

Refusing to be squashed, however, the flashbacks wash over me like the ebb and flow of the ocean right before the inevitable happens and it takes you under.