Sleep is especially important, because I know this is the cue that means I should feel a lot better when I wake again. From experience, I know my appetite should be returned, and the pain still there but far less debilitating. Fingers crossed.
When I wake, Soren is watching me from the doorway, concern still etched into his brow. “Hey,” he says gently, entering the room.
He moves to the top of the bed, his hand brushing lightly over my shoulder—a quiet, grounding touch. He helps me sit up, adjusting the pillows behind me so they cushion my back. “Any better?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I whisper, taking inventory of the pain that’s still very much present but now far more manageable. Perhaps a seven or eight on a scale of ten, not pleasant by any means, but no longer off the charts. “Getting there.”
“Good,” he nods, then he steps out of the room again, quietly pulling the door shut behind him.
I don’t think too hard about what it would have been like if he wasn’t here to help me—about what it would have been like to endure this by myself in Miami with Adrian the only one around. About whether I would’ve eaten. Whether I would’ve pushed through the pain, or ignored it until it got worse like I usually do. Whether I would have been supported or sneered at like I was a silly woman embellishing my pain.
Because I already know the answer.
I would have done all of those things, and all of those things would have been done to me.
But Soren didn’t let any of that happen.
And, for once, I don’t feel judged. I don’t feel minimized. I don’t feel like a burden.
I feel cared for.
Yet there’s a gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach that has nothing to do with my health issues.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve come to learn, good things and tender moments never last.
CHAPTER 47
IVY
Afew moments later, Soren steps back inside the bedroom, this time holding a plush towel. There’s a storm in his eyes, an intensity I didn’t expect to see today.
“There’s one other thing I heard helps,” he says. “If you’re willing.”
I quirk a brow. He’s already given me a heating pad, TENS machine, nourishment, water, pain relief. Mountains of affection and moral support. What else could he possibly have read about that could help me out of this miserable state?
But the pain is still present—nowhere near as strong as before but still making itself known—and still way more severe than I’m sure some people would bear before running to the hospital and demanding something far stronger than over-the-counter pain relief. So I’m all ears.
My interest is piqued. “Do tell.”
His mouth curves into a small smile, but his eyes give him away, darkening in a manner I’ve become accustomed to.
Subconsciously, my body knows too, and despite the savagebeating it’s been taking from my illness, I feel a tingle in my overwrought core.
“I’m going to make you come,” he says. “Orgasms help to relieve the cramping.”
“Oh really?” I ask. I’ve heard this—even taken matters into my own hands a few times. And it has definitely offered some type of reprieve. But it’s very much been a self-service situation.
“And you don’t mind the fact there’s blood literally everywhere?” I squint an eye at him, trying to figure out if he’s all talk, or if he’s really intending to follow through.
“Hey, I’m here for all of it,” he says. “Your blood is mine, as far as I’m concerned. Nothing about you is off-limits to me.” His expression grows serious. “And I hate seeing you in pain, Ivy. I don’t like it. I’ll fix it.”
“Seriously?” I quirk a brow. “You’re not grossed out at all?”
“No, I’m not,” he takes my hand. “Far from it. There’s absolutely nothing about you that could ever gross me out, Ivy.” He frowns, his disappointment obvious. “Why can’t you get it through your head that everything about you is exactly what I want? What I need.”
“This is a bit of a stretch though, isn’t it?” I remain skeptical. Guys are usually so squeamish when it comes to anything menstrual-related, treating women like they’re aliens during this time of the month. As if their blood touched them it would burn a hole in their flesh, or give them some incurable curse.
I’ve literally seen men take a perimeter walk to avoid the tampons in the feminine product aisle at the grocery store, as if they’re subject to some kind of restraining order demanding they keep a certain distance.