Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour

CHAPTER 34

Roman

We get back to my atelier at some ungodly hour of the morning. Close to three a.m. After hours of extensive tests—X-rays, MRIs, and a CT scan—Sofi’s prognosis: she’s going to be okay. Bruised from head to toe, she suffered a mild concussion and a sprained ankle. Thank fuck, she didn’t have to stay overnight at the hospital for observation. I couldn’t wait to get out of the place. After my car crash, I spent a long, painful month in one and they creep me out. Plus, I sure as hell wasn’t going to stand for some young hunky doctor, or some horny old geezer for that matter, looking up her gown and poking around her body. That’s how possessive I’ve become of her. And protective.

Something in me changed when I saw her lying at the bottom of the stairs, sprawled semi-conscious on the floor. A panic alarm sounded in my ears so loudly it was deafening. Worst-case scenario thoughts bombarded my head like missiles. She couldn’t move; she couldn’t talk. Maybe she was paralyzed. Or brain damaged in some horrific way. And when she lost consciousness, my mind jumped to the ultimate worst possibility—she was going to die. The thought of losing my precious butterfly put a knife in my heart so deep I coughed blood.

Still lifeless in the ambulance, she was hooked up to monitors, her pale face covered with an oxygen mask and her head immobilized in a frightening neck brace. The half-hour drive to lower Manhattan’s Presbyterian Hospital was unbearable. As the siren tolled like a death knoll, battling the damn city traffic, I held Sofi’s limp hand, hoping for any sign. My chest throbbed as much as my head. I almost asked the paramedics for something to numb my pain. Quell my fear.

I never left Sofi’s side as the medics rushed her into the emergency room, my hand gripping the gurney as I kept pace with their hell-bent speed. The wait in the trauma unit reception area while Sofi underwent testing was grueling. I had no idea what was going on and felt helpless and hopeless. With each passing second, I wanted to strangle someone for not giving me the slightest clue. Charge through the sterile halls until I found her and had answers. By the time they gave me the good news she was fine and would recover, I was too drained to do a happy dance. Having an aversion to hospitals, I just wanted to get the hell out of the joint and take my butterfly home.

Loaded with painkillers and sedatives upon being discharged from the hospital and armed with a pair of crutches, my poor worn-out, battered butterfly instantly nodded off, her head falling against my chest during the cab ride back to my atelier. Quietly, I wrapped my arm around her and held her close to me. Warming her frail body with mine. Relishing the touch of her. So fucking grateful she was sharing the air I breathed. Her heart beating in time with mine. When we arrived at my place, I let her sleep and carried my light-as-a-feather sleeping beauty in my arms inside while the kind cab driver, whom I tipped generously, brought in her crutches.

“How is she?” comes a soft, concerned voice. Madame DuBois, my ever faithful chief of staff, meets me at the entrance, locking the door behind me. Wearing a long white nightgown and holding a candle, she anxiously awaits for an answer.

I let out the deep breath I’ve been holding in all night. A sigh of relief. “She’s going to be okay.” Explaining the extent of Sofi’s injuries, my voice sounds hoarse and weary. “She’s going to need a few days of bed rest.”

“Thank God,” mutters Madame DuBois, tenderly brushing a wisp of hair off her angelic face. “Can I help you?”

“Yes.” I gaze down at my butterfly. “I’m going to bring her upstairs to her room. Would you be kind enough to bring up her crutches and then get her out of her clothes and into her pajamas?”

Madame DuBois nods. “Bien sûr.”

God bless Madame DuBois. What would I do without her? She’s been with me through thick and thin. Life and death. Now, this.

Ten minutes later, Sofi is sound asleep in her flannel butterfly pajamas, the fluffy duvet pulled up to her chest and her crutches stacked against the wall by her bed. There’s also a glass of water and some Advil on her nightstand. She doesn’t stir as I stare at her. For how long my good eye lingers, I cannot tell you. All I know is I can’t bring myself to leave her. The urge to crawl into bed with her and hold her in my arms consumes me.

Standing at the doorway, Madame DuBois reels me in. “Monsieur, it’s late. You should get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”

I hear myself mumble something compliant, but still can’t tear myself away from Sofi after Madame DuBois patters back to her room. Bending over, I trace my forefinger along her slightly parted lips. Those exquisite, kissable lips. Like a magnet, she draws me closer, the orange blossom scent of her hair making me dizzy with desire. Unable to resist, my lips find hers and lightly touch down, their warmth filling every atom of my being. I force myself to pull away. Unable to leave her, I watch in awe as her lips curl into a smile and spill my name. So piously, so softly, it’s like she’s saying a prayer.

I confess. Tonight I prayed. I prayed I wouldn’t lose my butterfly. Someone heard me. She’s made me believe there is hope for the flowers.

Hope for me.