Jesus, Lilith is in fine form this month. After inhaling a deep breath through my nose, I release it slowly from my mouth. I’ve been doing this for the last five minutes, hoping the painkillers kick in soon.
The actual blood bath hasn’t even started yet, but it’s on its way. This is just Lilith’s warm-up. Lying on my couch with a heat pack on my lower back, another across my pelvis, and one tucked between my legs, I continue my deep breathing.
I’m so thankful that nobody sees me like this. I’m in so much pain I can’t move. I’m stuck like this: my jaw locked tight, curled in the foetal position, wearing my most comfortable leggings and an oversized T-shirt. My hair is everywhere, sweat covers my brow, I haven’t brushed my teeth, and tears slide down my crumpled face from my tightly closed eyes.
I’m so deep inside my head that I don’t hear the knocking at my front door until it turns to pounding. Swallowing hard, I attempt to sit up. Red-hot, searing pain shoots from my pelvis down my thighs, and I crumple back to my side.
Shattering glass is the next thing I hear, and I can’t even bring myself to try and get up this time. If someone has come to rob me, so be it. Just don’t touch my painkillers or I’ll have to cut a bitch. Everything else, they can have.
“Charlotte!” A masculine voice penetrates my pain-addled thoughts.
Prying my eyes open, I’m shocked to see Elijah leaning over me. His face is ashen, his eyes searching mine.
“What are you doing here?” I manage to ask on a whisper.
“Tell me what you need. What can I do to help?” he says.
I shake my head. “Nothing. Pills will work soon,” I mutter.
He runs a hand through his hair, staring down at me as he nods. “Okay, I’ll be right back. I left my stuff outside. Hang tight.” His eyes look tortured. I can tell he wants to make this better for me, but he just can’t. After a moment, he drops a kiss to my forehead, then disappears from my line of sight.
Finally, finally, finally, the painkillers start to work. I feel their effects slowly blanket my senses, not taking the pain away, but masking it. I relish this feeling the way an addict soaks up the euphoria of a hit. My spent body relaxes into the cushions, and I release a deep sigh.
Elijah reappears in front of me, and I frown. I half-thought he was a figment of my imagination. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d imagined someone coming to my rescue. But he’s really here, standing above me, holding a white box with a big pink bow tied on top, and with a red backpack hanging off his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?”
Instead of answering me, he goes about placing the box on my purple ottoman, then drops his backpack to the ground and unpacks it, placing things on the ottoman beside the box, his back to me.
“Elijah?” I ask.
When he’s finished whatever the hell he’s doing, he turns to face me. The anguish I see there hits me like a tidal wave. I gasp and bite down on my bottom lip.
His face crinkles as he comes to his knees at the side of the couch, tugging my lip from between my teeth. A sad smile lifts his perfect lips. “You should have called me.”
I frown. “Why?”
Frustration pulses off him in waves. “Because you’re in fucking agony and you shouldn’t be by yourself.”
The force behind his words makes me angry. “I can take care of myself, Elijah. I don’t need you or anyone else to do it for me.”
He runs his hand through his tussled hair again. “I know that! But you shouldn’t have to, Charlotte. I backed off because it’s what you wanted, but you know I care. You know I would have come if you’d asked.”
I swallow. Yeah, I do know that. But calling would have meant he would see me like this, and that’s the last thing I want. “I don’t want you to see me this way.” I wave a hand down my body. “This isn’t fun. It isn’t light-hearted and exciting. And that’s what I want you to feel when you’re with me, not this!” My eyes burn and my heart pounds. I need him to understand.
“I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t want you to feel obligated to hang around. I’ve been in that position before, and I’ll never let it happen again.” Great, now I’m crying. Goddamn it! I squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth.
His big, calloused hand cups my jaw. “Charlotte, don’t shut me out now, baby. Keep going. This is the most you’ve ever said about why you keep me at a distance. But I’m here, I’m listening, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Cracking one eye open, I peek at him. He’s so damn beautiful. Being this close, I get a clear view of his ocean-blue eyes and see nothing but sincerity staring back at me.
I take a deep breath and tell him about my shithouse relationship with Sunny. “Sunny and I started dating in our early twenties. The first year was great; everything was sunshine and cupcakes. The second year wasn’t as wonderful, but we were past that honeymoon phase, you know? Then, I found him in bed with his best friend’s sister.
“Apparently, they’d been seeing each other for six months, and he didn’t break it off with me, because he didn’t want me to be alone during …” I sweep my hand down my body again, “… this.”
Elijah’s jaw is set, showcasing his sculpted cheekbones. His eyes practically scream how much he wants to beat the crap out of Sunny—which makes me a little too happy.
Then, Elijah’s thumb glides over the curve of my cheek, his eyes watching the motion with intensity. “Charlotte, that guy was a dickwad. But he clearly cared about you. I kind of understand him not wanting to leave you when you were like this. However, he should have talked to you about it, told you what was going on with him.”
“But being with me … it’s hard, Elijah.” My voice breaks on his name. Damnit. This is what endometriosis does; it ruins everything.
Elijah shakes his head. “The way he handled the situation is not on you. That’s all him. You hear me?” His eyes lock with mine. “It’s all on him. It wasn’t your fault.”
I blink back tears. Emotion clogs my throat, and I wrap my arms around Elijah’s shoulders, pulling him into me. I can’t talk; I have nothing to say. He just said everything I needed to hear.
It all makes sense now—why she doesn’t date, why she’s been keeping me at arm’s length.
I want to hunt down the fuck-knuckle that made her think she needs to brave this godawful disease on her own. My fingers slide up into her messy hair as she sobs into my neck. “Let me look after you. I’m not asking, Charlotte. I’m telling you. Just so we’re clear.”
She sniffles and nods.
Holding her shoulders, I tug her away from me, pressing her back into the pillow she has propped on the couch. I hold out a finger, signalling for her to wait a moment. Spinning around, I show her the box of camomile, vanilla, and honey tea I grabbed with the few other supplies I picked up for her on my way here.
“I’m going to go make you a tea. You need those heat packs to be done again?”
She blinks up at me, a shy smile tugging her lush lips. “Please,” she says, handing them to me.
Then I remember the front window and pause. “Uh, I should tell you … I, uh, I smashed the window by the front door to get in. I knew you were in here, and I was knocking for ages and you didn’t respond … I kind of freaked myself out, thinking the worst, and yeah. I threw a rock through it. I’ll pay to get it fixed, though.”
Her smile is blinding. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
My chest swells and I throw her a wink. “I’ll break as many windows as it takes to show you I’m not going anywhere, babe. You’re stuck with me.”
With that, I go in search of her kitchen, which isn’t hard to find.
The layout of her house is very simple with an open kitchen-dining area directly behind the lounge room wall. Her kitchen is huge. White granite bench tops with black cupboard doors and shiny silver handles glint in the overhead lighting. Silver appliances top it all off.
I take in the heavy white-and-grey marble table with six black high-back chairs surrounding it in the dining space, and the silver candleholders evenly spaced down the centre. This whole place is so damn fancy. Nothing at all like my old country-style farmhouse. This place might be high-end, but it doesn’t have that warm, welcoming embrace a home should have.
This feels more like a display house.
I throw the heat pack in the microwave and set it to run for two minutes while I flick on the kettle and go in search of Charlotte’s teacups. I find them in the cabinet below the kettle. My mother drilled into us boys the difference between a teacup and a mug at a very young age, and all Charlotte has in here are mugs—not one single teacup. I’ll have to rectify that.
Grabbing the most delicate one I can find, I set it on the bench. It will have to do. And then I see the writing on the side and burst out laughing. It says, “I’m a pacifist. I’m about to pass my fist through your face.” It suits my little firecracker.
I return to her, tea and heat packs in hand. Placing the tea on the big purple ottoman, I pass her the heat packs so she can arrange them the way she likes. She looks much better than she did when I arrived, which is a huge relief. I was about ready to call an ambulance.
She taps the edge of the couch. “Sit.”
Assessing the position of her body, curled close to the edge, I figure I can squeeze in behind and hold her. Kicking off my shoes, I snatch up my iPod and mini speaker that Juda got me for my last birthday. Then I climb over her, tuck one arm under her pillow, and tug her body back into my chest with the other as I settle into the cushions.
She glances at me over her shoulder, a small smile playing on the corner of her lips.
“What?” I ask.
To my complete shock, a faint blush tints her cheeks. “This is nice. I wasn’t expecting it, is all.”
I shrug. “Get used to it. I’m done keeping my distance. Now, are you ready for this? I have prepared a period mix for you.” I waggle my brows, and hers furrow.
“A what?”
“Just relax and listen,” I instruct.
With a cute frown, she does as I say, resting her head on the fluffy pillow and snuggling back into me. I find the list I made especially for her and the torment she’s going through. Music always soothes me when I’m in a right shit of a mood or I’m sick.
I compiled a list of songs that relate to her current condition in one way or another. I hit play on the first song. Leona Lewis’s melodic voice fills the room, and I smile, proud of myself.
Charlotte’s back vibrates against my chest, and I prop myself up on the arm under her pillow. She’s laughing. It’s a good look on her.
“‘Bleeding Love.’ You made me a bloody playlist? Is that what this is?” she asks between chuckles.
I nod. “Sure did. Every song on this list has the word blood in the title.”
She laughs harder. And I smile wider.
Making her feel even a fraction better fills me with a sense of rightness I’ve never felt before.