The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

39

Weston

"You’re a wanker, you ass," Damian frowns down at me.

I tilt my chin up from where I am sprawled out on the examination table.

"Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty," Arpad drawls from the other side.

This scenario is all wrong. As a doctor, I am used to being in there, with the action, inside the OR, where I use my talent, my wits, my instinct, to save lives. Instead, I am sprawled out here…like the loser I am. Loser, fucking loser.

I try to sit up, and my entire body protests. I wince. Damian touches my shoulder. "Take it easy, Kincaid," he cautions.

"Fuck off," I mutter. What’s wrong with me? I shoved her away. I knew what I was doing, I was aware of it. I had done it while in full possession of my senses. I hadn’t been able to stop myself. What should I have said instead? Please stay; don’t go. All the shit I threw your way? Those were my issues, not yours. My insecurities, my bloody fallacies about myself. I thought I was invincible, invulnerable, I thought I could control my fate, I thought… I could live without your touch, your kisses, your beautiful cunt…your spirit, your sass, your lips that clung to mine, your heart…your tender heart, your fun-loving attitude, that I admit, sometimes got on my nerves. I mean, can anyone be that chirpy, that happy all the time? What hurts of your own had you been hiding underneath? I’d never bothered to find out… And now, it is too late.

"Too late," I mumble.

"What’s that?" Damian lowers his head to my eye level. "The fuck did you say?" he demands.

"It’s too fucking late." I drag my fingers through my hair. "I let her go, man."

"Who are you talking about?"

My head whirls; I squeeze my eyes shut to stop it. Run an internal check on my vitals—pain in my right shoulder and my left, my left eye hurts like a bitch, my broken finger is numb and my chest... The band around my chest, that hollow sensation in my abdomen... I straighten, "Mother, how is she? Is she…?" I swallow. Don’t say it; don’t think it. "Is she…?" I swallow down the ball of emotion in my throat. Shit, since when did I become this weak? This unable to take on my share of the burden for my family? This selfish that I am slumped in a corner worrying about myself... My bloody love life, which isn’t… It is more than that. Hell. I sit up; my head spins, "Whoa." I slouch down again, "The hell is wrong with me?"

"They had to sedate you."

"What?"

"You had a bit of a breakdown, ol’ chap?"

"What?"

"You lost it there," Arpad’s somber voice reaches me.

"You’re not making any sense, man." I straighten. My shoulder hurts like a bitch—my right shoulder. I glance down at my injured finger; the splint has been replaced by a fresh one.

"Yeah," Damian drawls. "You hit Liam, who decked you. They hauled you into another ambulance, brought you here. You were lucky that you didn't fracture that finger again, though you’re going to have to wear that splint for a while longer."

Right!

"And my mother?"

"She’s fine," Damian replies.

"She had a—"

"She didn’t," He shakes his head.

"What?" I scowl, "She had a cardiac arrest."

"She didn’t."

"I don’t understand." I scowl.

"She had symptoms resembling a cardiac arrest, but your CPR saved her. But it wasn’t a cardiac arrest."

"You are not making any sense."

"She was poisoned."

"What?" I shake my head. "How did that happen?"

"They are trying to find out."

"The food we ate." I rub the back of my neck "The rest of us are fine?"

"Everyone else is, as far as I know," Damian confirms.

"She was targeted," Arpad offers.

"Do they know who did it?" I glance between them. The two men exchange glances.

"What are you thinking?" I growl.

Damian glances down at me, "Who has a vendetta against the Seven?"

"The Mafia," I breathe.

Arpad’s features harden; he doesn’t comment.

"Fucking asspricks." My stomach churns. Sweat beads my forehead. "They changed our lives… Traumatized us. Hell, I thought I’d gotten over my bloody trigger…but fucking-fuck… I froze when I saw my mother’s watch."

"We heard," Damian replies, his tone quiet.

"I couldn’t help her." A ball of emotion closes my throat.

"From what we heard, you gave her CPR, which saved her life."

"I didn’t do enough." I rake my fingers through my hair.

"Aren’t you hearing what we’re trying to tell you, asshole? It wasn’t your fault."

"Right," I draw in a breath, "I get it." I swing my legs over the side. "I need to go see her,"

Arpad stops me with an arm on my shoulder. "She doesn’t want to see you."

"What?"

"No one in your family wants you there."

"Excuse me? Are you joking?"

"Not after how you acted with her…"

"What? You just said my CPR saved her. Why are they pissed at me?"

"Amelie."

"She’s not their concern."

"By all accounts, she is now."

"The fuck do you mean?"

"She’s in there with them," Arpad adds.

My heart begins to race. Shit, can I put this right somehow? Have I been given another chance? If I can get to her and explain my actions... I rise to my feet and the world lurches around me. "Fucking fuck." My legs give way under me and I crash back onto the examination table.

"Man, you’re pathetic." Damian glowers down at me. "They don’t want to see you. You don’t want to go there; it could get ugly."

"They’re my family; they’ll see me," I insist.

"You sure?"

"I mean, so I was, uh—unreasonable with her."

"You think?"

"Okay, I was an ass. I hurt her—"

"More like broke her heart. What were you thinking? Asking her to leave in front of everyone? A moose would have more sense than you."

"A moose?"

"It’s Christmas, and all that," he explains.

"Right." I lurch back up to my feet; my legs seem to hold me this time. I take a step forward, sway. Damian grabs my shoulder. I shake it off, "I can fucking do this on my own."

"Fine, man, whatever." He exchanges a look with Arpad, who shakes his head.

"You bitches have anything to say, you can say it to my face."

"Still crotchety in his old age," Arpad mutters.

"If you cunts can’t help me, then you can fuck off," I growl, step toward the exit of the room. By the time I reach the doorway I am panting. I grab the doorframe; sweat beads my forehead. Shit, the fuck is wrong with me? My shoulder hurts, but my fractured finger seems to have gone numb, thank fuck. I propel myself forward, make it into the corridor and crash into a nurse. The young woman straightens, shoots me an annoyed glance, then blinks. "Dr Kincaid?"

Thank fuck. She recognizes me from when I'd done my residency in this very hospital. I need all the breaks I can get; so long as I reach her in time.

I glance down at the nurse's badge. "Marcy," I kick my lips up in a smile, "Can you help me?"

She flutters her eyelids and my gag reflex kicks in. Shit, has to be the drugs I am on. It’s no wonder I feel like I am flying. It’s also the only reason that I can’t tolerate another woman putting the moves on me. Yeah, nothing to do with the fact that a sassy, curvy, pastry chef has entranced me. Sure, keep telling yourself that, fuckhead. My head spins. I put out my hand to steady myself and Marcy grabs it. Fuck, this is not right—me touching another woman. The fuck is wrong with you Kincaid? Eyes on the prize, remember, and right now, I need help in getting to where Amelie…and my mother, and yeah, the entire family is.

I hold onto Marcy’s shoulder, "Can you help me?"