The Gender Game 5 Bella Forrest (motivational novels for students txt) 📖

enough to cut off circulation. By the time we were done, Dr. Arlan was there, and he and Dr. Tierney spoke in hushed whispers in the corner.

I stiffened, wondering if Dr. Arlan was going to resort to the behavior of a typical Patrian male and demand that he take over, but much to my relief, it didn’t look like he was causing any problems. I cleared my throat and looked at them.

“We’re done,” I announced.

Dr. Tierney nodded. “Good. Now… get out.”

I blinked. “What? You said you needed help. I’m staying.”

Her face was hard, any sign of sympathy now buried. “I can’t let you do that,” she said. “It’s admirable that you want to be here, but I can’t trust you not to react to what I’m about to do.”

“I shouldn’t have to convince you that I’m more than capable of—”

“I’m going to be drilling into her skull, Viggo,” Dr. Tierney announced, her voice calm and clinical. She picked the drill up off the table where she’d been organizing her equipment and held it up to me. “Possibly multiple times. The procedure is rudimentary and invasive, and I do not need you here to freak out when I do. Because I know that, while you are a practical person, this is the woman you love.”

My jaw slackened as she spoke, the sickness I felt validating her words: instantly I felt a very strong urge to pick Violet up and run, in spite of the logical part of my brain trying to convince me that Dr. Tierney was a good doctor who knew her stuff. It took me a minute to calm my protective instinct, and the best response I could manifest was, “You’re right… Good luck.” Then I turned and walked out.

I made it as far as I dared to go—the farmhouse living room—and sat down heavily on the sofa, staring blearily out the window as birds fluttered around in the early-morning light. Cad gave me a curious look as he and Ms. Dale entered the room after me.

“I’ll be outside,” he said. “Um, let me know if you need anything or—”

“We will,” replied Ms. Dale smoothly. “We won’t leave you in the dark. I promise.”

He nodded and left, which was fine by me; my overprotective nature was flaring up, and while I knew he was her family, the fact remained that I didn’t know him. Besides, he had a wife to hold his hand. I didn’t think I could handle his worry and mine at the same time. Ms. Dale turned her gaze back to me, her face pensive. After a pause, she went into the kitchen, and then returned five minutes later holding two large, steaming, slightly chipped mugs. “Try this,” she said softly, holding one out to me. I felt warmth flow into my hand from the mug, and a distinct sweet, herbal aroma rose from it.

“Chamomile?” I asked, an incredulous look on my face. It seemed like forever since I had done something as simple as drink a cup of tea, especially herbal tea… A part of me went straight back to when Miriam and I had lived together, to an evening cup after a long and stressful day…

Ms. Dale smiled as she lifted her mug to her lips, perhaps taking my surprise for my normal sass. “I don’t think you need any caffeine right now.”

Unable to argue with that logic, I lifted the mug and took a sip. The hot liquid almost scalded my tongue, but it eased down into my stomach with a surge of warmth that seemed to lift the anxiety that lived there, if only for a moment. I rested it on my lap, staring at the little patterns on the battered mug.

“Thanks,” I said, letting my gratitude pour out into my voice. Ms. Dale just nodded, and we drank our tea in silence.

After a while, Ms. Dale stood up and put down her empty mug. “I hate to say it, but I have business to attend to,” she said. “I’m clearing your schedule for today, though—try to get some sleep, all right? I know things are tense, but we really need you fully functional. You’re useless to us in this state.”

I didn’t even bother to protest, just nodded at her, watching her leave, and then settled back into the mushy seats of the couch, trying to get comfortable. My adrenaline rush had faded—I didn’t remember when, but it felt like I’d been tired for my entire life—and, even with my stomach sick with worry, I drifted in and out of sleep.

Each noise of the house settling or sound from outside caused me to wake abruptly, instantly alert, searching for any news of Violet’s condition. Several times, I caught myself starting to stand up to go check on them, only to try to convince myself to sit back down. There were a couple close calls, but for the most part, I managed to find a hidden reserve of patience.

By the time Dr. Tierney came out, I was holding on to my control by a thin thread. I felt raw, on edge, a feeling with which I was becoming hauntingly familiar. I stared at the walls, at the floor, at the ceiling, so out of it I didn’t even notice Dr. Tierney until she somehow manifested right next to me. I felt dumb, sluggish, watching as she stared at the mostly empty, long-cold cup of tea before me, then picked it up and drained the rest of its contents in one gulp.

“It’s done,” she announced as she finished, setting the mug down on an end table with a decisive clink. I studied her as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “We relieved the pressure in her skull and patched her eardrum with special paper—a trick of the trade, you know.” Her exhaustion was apparent from the way her words came out of her mouth, a little slower, a little less coherent than normal.

“Will she recover?” I demanded, and Dr. Tierney