Part 56 (1/2)
She kept going around the room, tidying up. ”What are you looking at?”
”You.”
Sweeping her hair back, she laughed. ”So your sight's returning.”
”Among other things. Come here, Mary. I want to kiss you.”
”Oh, sure. Make up for being a bully by plying me with your body.”
”I'll use any a.s.set I've got.”
He threw the sheets and duvet off himself and swept his hand down his chest, over his stomach. Lower. Her eyes widened when he took his heavy erection in his palm. As he stroked himself, the scent of her arousal bloomed like a bouquet in the room.
”Come over here, Mary.” He twisted his hips. ”I'm not sure I'm doing this right. It feels so much better when you touch me.”
”You are incorrigible.”
”Just looking for some instruction.”
”Like you need that,” she muttered, taking off her sweater.
They made love in an unhurried, glorious way. But when he held her afterward, he couldn't go to sleep. Neither could she.
That night Mary tried to breathe normally as they took the elevator up to the hospital's sixth floor. Saint Francis was quieter in the evening, but still teeming with people.
The receptionist let them in and then left, pulling a cherry-red coat on as she locked the door behind her. Five minutes later Dr.
Delia Croce entered the waiting room.
The woman almost managed to hide her double take at Rhage. Even though he was dressed like a civilian, in slacks and a black knit turtleneck, that leather trench coat was still something to see falling from those broad shoulders.
Well, and Rhage was... Rhage. Unbearably beautiful.
The doctor smiled. ”Ah, hi, Mary, would you come down to my office? Or will it be the two of you?”
”Both of us. This is Rhage. My-”
”Mate,” he said loud and clearly.
Dr. Delia Croce's eyebrows shot up, and Mary had to smile in spite of all the tension in her body.
The three of them went down the hall, past the doors of the exam rooms and the scales in the little alcoves and the computer stations. There was no small talk. No chatty, how's-the-weather, gee-the-holidays-are-coming-up-fast kind of stuff. The doctor knew Mary hated social chatter.
Something Rhage had picked up on at TGI Friday's on their first date.
G.o.d, that felt like years ago, Mary thought. And who could have foreseen they'd end up here together?
Dr. Delia Croce's office was cluttered with neat piles of papers and files and books. Diplomas from Smith and Har-ard hung on the wall, but the thing that Mary had always found most rea.s.suring was the line of thriving African violets on the windowsill.
She and Rhage sat down as the doctor went behind her desk.
Before the woman was in her chair, Mary said, ”So what are you giving me, and how much can I handle?”
Dr. Delia Croce looked up over the medical records and the pens and the binder clips and the phone on her desk.”I spoke with my colleagues here as well as two other specialists. We've reviewed your records and the results from yesterday's- ”.
”I'm sure you have. Now tell me where we are.”
The other woman took off her gla.s.ses and inhaled deeply. ”I think you should get your affairs in order, Mary. There's nothing we can do for you.”
At four thirty in the morning, Rhage left the hospital in an absolute daze. He'd never expected to go home without Mary.
She'd been admitted for a blood transfusion, and because evidently those night fevers and the exhaustion were also tied to the beginnings of pancreat.i.tis. If things improved she'd be released the next morning, but no one was making any commitments.
The cancer was strong: Its presence had multiplied even in the short time between when she'd had her quarterly checkup a week ago and when the blood test had been taken the day before. And Dr. Delia Croce and the specialists all agreed: Because of the treatments Mary had already been through, they couldn't give her any more chemo. Her liver was shot and just couldn't handle the chemical load.
G.o.d. He'd been prepared for one h.e.l.l of fight. And a whole lot of suffering, particularly on her part. But never death. And not so fast.
They only had a matter of months. Springtime. Maybe summer.
Rhage materialized in the courtyard of the main house and headed for the Pit. He couldn't bear to go back to his and Mary's room by himself. Not yet.
Except as he stood in front of Butch and V's door, he didn't knock. Instead he looked over his shoulder at the facade of the main house and thought of Mary feeding the birds. He pictured her there, on the steps, that lovely smile on her face, the suns.h.i.+ne in her hair.
Sweet Jesus. What was he going to do without her?
He thought of the strength and resolve in her eyes after he'd fed from another female in front of her. Of the way she loved him even though she'd seen the beast. Of her quiet, shattering beauty and her laugh and her gunmetal gray eyes.
Mostly he thought of her the night she'd torn out of Bella's, running out into the coldness on her bare feet, running out into his arms, telling him that she wasn't okay... Finally turning to him for help.
He felt something on his face.
Aw, f.u.c.k. Was he crying?
Yup.
And he didn't care that he was going soft.
He looked down at the pebbles in the driveway and was struck by the absurd thought that they were very white in the floodlights.
And so was the stuccoed retaining wall that ran around the courtyard. And so was the fountain in the center that had been drained for winter- He froze. Then his eyes peeled open.
He slowly pivoted toward the mansion, lifting his head up to the window of their room.Purpose galvanized him and carried him into the vestibule at a dead run.
Mary lay in the hospital bed and tried to smile at Butch, who was sitting in a chair in the corner with his hat and sungla.s.ses on.
He'd come as soon as Rhage had left, to guard her and keep her safe until nightfall.