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“Good. Keep him still,” the doctor mutters, staring at the images on the screen. I barely hear him, I’m so entirely focused on Elio, the massive monster of a man reduced to clinging to me.
“It’s alright. Just hold still and it will all be over soon,” I coo quietly, pressing my cheek against the top of his head.
Elio’s hand shakes around mine, like it’s taking every ounce of will he has not to crush the bones of my fingers in response to the pain.
“It’s alright, mo chroí, just a little longer. That’s it. You’re alright now.”
His hair is so warm and soft beneath my cheek. I squeeze my eyes shut just as a tear trickles down from my eye, instantly absorbed and lost in the thick strands.
It’s getting hard to talk, but I keep going, softly crooning.
“It’s alright. I’m here with you now, a chuisle mo chroí. I’m here.”
Chapter 16
Elio
“All done,” Morelli says.
“Not yet,” I reply in Italian. Because him stopping the scan means Deirdre’s going to let go of me. And I will put myself through any amount of hell, for any length of time, to have her resting her head on mine the way it is now. To hear those gentle words falling from her mouth, brushing over me like fucking feathers from an angel’s wing.
“What do you mean, not yet?” Morelli clucks. “I’ve done enough. I’m not going to keep pressing on the inflamed tissue for no reason. As predicted, your kidney is damaged, but you won’t need surgery as long as you rest properly and do what I tell you to. It appears that you have at least one cracked rib on that side as well. There may be more, but the ultrasound isn’t perfect at detecting them. Both injuries will take at least four to six weeks to fully heal. The kidney will require bedrest for at least a week, maybe even two.”
“What’s he saying?” Deirdre whispers with hushed urgency against my hair.
“He’s saying I’m going to need lots of tender, loving care,” I rasp against her collarbone. She raises her head from mine to give Morelli a questioning glance, and the loss of that contact hurts almost as much as that wand pressing into my freshly butchered internal organ.
Morelli switches to English as he addresses her. “Rest. Bed rest. Two weeks. No alcohol. I give medicine. For the pain. Lower inflammation.”
“No,” I grunt. Pain reminds me of what’s important. Reminds me I’m alive.
“You’ll take whatever he tells you to,” Deirdre retorts.
“If I’m going to be confined to bed like a Victorian-era invalid I’m at least going to be lucid and not doped out of my mind,” I grumble.
“No NSAIDs. Bad for kidneys,” Morelli warns.
“I’ll take a Tylenol if I get desperate. But I don’t think I’ll need it.” I inhale deeply of Deirdre’s scent. “Got my drug of choice right fucking here.”
Deirdre makes a huffy sound of annoyance, but I’ll be damned if I don’t hear a bit of reluctant amusement in it, too.
“At least you’re healthy enough to spout total nonsense,” she says. Every time she speaks, her shoulder and chest move against me. I don’t plan on ever letting go.
“You need to let go,” Morelli tells me in Italian.
For fuck’s sake.
“You need a splint for your right hand,” he continues. “And don’t even try to get out of it. Your hands are already damaged enough from the scar tissue and surgeries you’ve been through. You don’t need a poorly-healed fracture on top of that.”
“What’s he saying now?” Deirdre asks.
“Says I need a splint.”
“Good. Yes. You do,” she says, nodding enthusiastically and making my head bounce against her shoulder with the movement.
“Whose side are you on, anyway?” I ask, peeling my forehead from her shoulder to narrow my gaze up at her.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” she answers, and my heart twinges when I see the shine of unshed tears in her eyes. “But I’m on yours, Elio. At least in this. Which is why I’m agreeing with everything Doctor Morelli says.”
