AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Yesterday hadn't been an improvement. She'd had to fend off several phone calls from the group, ignoring all their messages as she sat with her head in her hands and listened to heavy rock music pounding the walls of her home. After recalling what Atticus had threatened to do to Archie's apartment when she wouldn't let anyone in, Connie had sent messages to everyone, declaring she 'wasn't at home', then turned her phone off and slumped on the couch for over an hour. She hadn't gone to the club last night either.
By Monday morning, working on a lack of sleep, she was ready to hop on a plane and disappear somewhere warm and safe. That was all she needed, a vacation. None of this submit and surrender, regardless of how relaxed she'd been after the flogging and fucking. She just needed some time to herself, forherself, and she could come back to reality as the confident Domme she was.
But now, she had to set her own problems aside and figure out how to help a young woman whose life was circling the drain because she couldn't sleep. Caera's file was disturbingly sparse on details from her previous therapists, but the one glaring term that kept jumping out at Connie was night terrors.
There was a list of drugs from the benzodiazepinefamily which had been prescribed by all…four, Connie counted with an eye roll, of Caera's previous therapists, with the dosage getting higher with each physician. She shook her head—it was a wonder the girl wasn't an addict. Connie had been forced to give Archie a dose after the traumatic night that had left two men dead and Jasper temporarily paralyzed, but she'd been hesitant to give her friend even that small dose. If Archie hadn't been in akinetic catatonia, Connie wouldn't have given her any at all.
At the timid tap-tap on her door, Connie sighed and stood, moving quickly as she ran Caera's notes through her head. No one seemed to be looking beneath the surface of the issue—all efforts had been focused on smothering the symptoms under a blanket of pharmaceuticals.
Well, things would be different this time around.
She opened the door with a smile, not letting it fade as her new patient almost passed out in shock. The girl stumbled back, knees buckling, with a hoarse cry of alarm. Her already pale cheeks lost more color, highlighting the gauntness of her face and the bruised, sunken hollows of her eye sockets. Huge green eyes—shades lighter than Atticus's—were round with anxiety, but the soul in the heart of them was hidden beneath dull acceptance.
Connie's empathic heart sank with grief at the sight of her.
Keeping her voice low, she stepped back and murmured, “You must be Caera. Come on in, sweetheart.”
Trembling, the girl assessed the doorway and the room beyond, then took a hesitant step toward the threshold. She was the same height as Connie—although Connie's boots added an extra inch today—which put her at the five-nine mark, but her lack of muscle, self-confidence, and weight made her seem considerably smaller. Childlike, even.
The well-worn skinny jeans bagged over skinnier legs. Her sneakers were falling apart, and she wore what appeared to be at least three layers on her top half. Connie narrowed her eyes thoughtfully—it was a warm day, the month of May cruising into life with bright sunshine and a light breeze. Was the girl cold or trying to hide?
Caera reached up and snagged a tangled lock of greasy blonde hair in colorless fingers, pulling on it as she bit her cracked, dry bottom lip. She inched forward again, eyes watching Connie as though she might attack her at any moment.
Connie knew what trauma looked like. She was well versed in the many different ways it presented itself, and everything about this girl screamed victim. Bodie and Alicia both wore that badge of survival, although Bodie wore it with more pride than Alicia had managed to achieve yet, but this one…this one was trapped somewhere in the seventh level of hell.
It took a few minutes for Caera to make it into the room, and she jumped when Connie closed the door quietly behind her. Panicked eyes stared at the wooden barrier as though Connie had just locked her in with a ravenous bear.
“It's okay to be nervous, sweetheart. Why don't you choose a seat and make yourself comfortable while I get you something to drink?” Connie avoided touching the thin arm, certain it would be unwelcome. “I'm Doctor Monroe, but you can call me Constance or Connie. You were referred to me because your previous therapists feel you and I will make a good team to continue your treatment.”
“They dumped me on you.” It was hardly more than a whisper, and so resigned.
“Not at all. Firstly, I can accept or reject a referral if I think I'm not the best option for that particular person. After looking at your file, I believe we can make an improvement in your situation.” How, Connie didn't know. There wasn't enough data to formulate any sort of plan, which meant doing some reconnaissance of her own. “Secondly, more importantly, do you believe that the therapists you've seen over the past…three years have been the right fit for your needs?”
She walked over to her desk and opened the small fridge she kept beside it, taking out two bottles of fresh OJ. The girl needed hydrating, and some sugar. With the bottles in one hand, picking up the thin file in the other, Connie moved to the other end of the room where she'd decorated the space for homeliness, comfort, and relaxation.
Two blue-grey plush armchairs and a matching couch were positioned around a low coffee table. She tossed the file down next to a notepad and pen, set the bottles on the wood, then gestured for Caera to choose a chair. Only when the girl had defrosted enough to perch on the edge of an armchair did Connie choose the one beside her, angling her body to watch her.
Twisting her fingers together, Caera shook her head. “No. They didn't like me.”
Fury built so quickly, Connie barely managed to contain it before it ripped free. Whether a doctor liked a patient or not shouldn't come into the equation. Assessment, treatment, and continued support throughout the doctor-patient relationship should be the only thing important. “Really? Well then, they're idiots, aren't they?” Connie kicked her shoes off and drew her feet up onto the chair, to the astonishment of her patient. “Why don't we forget everything that's happened in the last few years, all the drugs and doctors, and start fresh?”
Caera blinked. “Y-You're not just going to write me a prescription for more drugs and send me home?”
Assholes, Connie thought savagely. She leaned over and grabbed her notepad and pen, the file. Settling snugly back into her seat, she tossed the file over her shoulder and listened to the flutter of papers scattering over the floor. “I'm a psychologist, Caera. I don't have a degree in psychopharmacology so I can't legally prescribe medications. However, even if I could, I don't believe drugs are the way forward in treating a patient.”
For the first time, Caera relaxed enough to take the rigidness from her spine. Those nervous hands stopped twining her fingers together quite as hard. “The drugs didn't work. They gave me so many different ones, but none of them worked. And they said…they said they couldn't do any more for me, and passed me along.”
Connie made a note to contact the previous therapists for more personal notes on the case, and a chance to admonish them for being asshats. She tapped her pen on the pad. “Okay, sweetheart, that isn't going to happen here. No meds unless absolutely necessary, and I'm afraid you're going to be stuck with me for as long as it takes to achieve what you want.”
Those huge green eyes shimmered with a sheen of tears. “Sleep. I just want to sleep without the monsters.”
Oh, she understood that feeling. It had taken nearly two years for her own nightmares to stop after she'd escaped Evan's poisonous clutches. “Good, we have something to aim for. Let's go back to the basics and get some history, then we can start paddling toward the end goal.”
It took almost thirty minutes to get down the salient details—family history, a glimpse into a troubled childhood. Connie made a quick note to revisit the subject, seeing as how Caera was disinclined to expand on a great many points Connie tried to raise.
By the time they got onto the heart of the matter, Connie called for a break and opened the juice bottle the girl hadn't touched. Shoving it into small hands, she gave her an arch look and ordered in her strict Domme voice to drink. When Caera raised it to her sore mouth, Connie hurried to her desk in bare feet and put a call through to the receptionist, asking her to rearrange Connie's schedule and clear the next two hours.
When she returned to her seat, the bottle was empty. “Sorry about that, I need a bit more time to build the big picture.” She opened the second bottle and exchanged it for the empty one still in Caera's hands. “So, you have no contact with your mother or your father?”
