Chapter 8 - The Price of a Thorn
That night, a violent autumn storm rolled over Manhattan. Rain lashed against the towering glass walls of the Fifth Avenue penthouse, the wind howling through the concrete canyons below.
I woke up at 2:30 AM to the sound of shattered glass coming from the lower level.
I threw on a silk robe and hurried down the floating staircase, my heart hammering against my ribs. The penthouse was dark, save for the blue flashes of lightning illuminating the living room.
Near the floor-to-ceiling windows, Julian stood with his back to me.
He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of dark lounge pants. His right hand was braced against the glass, his breathing heavy and ragged. On the floor beside him lay a shattered crystal glass of whiskey, amber liquid pooling over the slate stone.
“Julian?” I called out softly, keeping my voice gentle so as not to startle him.
His body tensed instantly. He didn’t turn around. “Go back upstairs, Maya.”
His voice was hoarse, strained with an intensity of pain that made the nurse inside me immediately take control.
I ignored his command, walking across the room, carefully stepping around the broken glass. “Julian, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
As lightning flashed again, illuminating his back, I stopped in my tracks.
His entire left side—from his shoulder blade down to his hip—was a map of violent, twisted burn scars and jagged surgical incisions. The muscle beneath the skin was spasming violently, pulling his spine into an unnatural, agonizing curve.
“It’s the storm,” Julian ground out between clenched teeth, his knuckles turning white against the glass. “The pressure drops... the nerve damage from the crash flares up. I don't need an audience. Go to bed.”
I didn’t go to bed.
Instead, I closed the distance between us, placing my hands directly onto his bare shoulders.
Julian flinched, a sharp intake of breath escaping his lips. “Maya, don't—”
“Stop being a CEO for five minutes, Julian,” I ordered, my voice firm with the authority of six years in trauma medicine. “You’re having a severe myofascial spasm triggered by barometric change and scar tissue contraction. Sit down on the bench before your legs give out.”
He looked at me through the shadows, his gray eyes wild with pain and stubborn pride. But the agony in his body was too great. Slowly, reluctantly, he let me guide him toward the wide leather bench near the fireplace.
He sat down, resting his elbows on his knees, his head hanging low as another spasm rippled through his back.
“Do you have medical supplies in the house?” I asked.
“In the master bathroom... bottom drawer. Lidocaine patches and magnesium balm,” he muttered, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles bulged.
I ran upstairs, grabbed the supplies, and returned within sixty seconds.
I knelt behind him on the bench. I warmed the magnesium balm between my palms, the soothing scent of arnica and lavender filling the space between us.
“This is going to hurt at first,” I warned softly. “Take a deep breath and let it out slowly.”
I pressed my hands against the dense, knotted scar tissue over his shoulder blade.
Julian groaned, his back arching, his hands gripping his knees so hard the fabric strained. “Damn it, Maya...”
“Breathe,” I whispered, leaning in closer, using the heels of my hands to apply deep, rhythmic pressure along the nerve pathways. “Count with me. One... two... three... release.”
For thirty minutes, in the dim light of the dying storm, I worked on his scarred flesh.
I knew these injuries. I had felt them three years ago in the mud on I-95, when his blood had soaked through my scrub top. My fingers found the exact adhesions, kneading the contracted muscle, slowly releasing the violent tension that had trapped him in his own body.
Gradually, Julian’s breathing slowed. The tremors running through his spine began to subside. His shoulders dropped, the agonizing tension melting away beneath my hands.
I reached for the lidocaine patches, carefully applying them over the deepest surgical scars along his ribs.
“Better?” I asked softly, resting my hands lightly against his warm, broad back.
Julian didn’t answer immediately.
He slowly turned around on the bench, catching my wrist in his large hand.
His eyes were no longer cold, guarded, or calculating. They were wide, dark, and filled with a raw, terrifying vulnerability that made my breath catch in my throat.
“Why didn't you leave that night, Maya?” he whispered, his thumb brushing over the pulse point on my wrist. “The car was about to explode. Anyone with half a brain would have run away.”
I looked into his eyes, the memory of that terrifying night flashing through my mind.
“Because you were looking at me,” I said simply. “Through the broken glass, your eyes were terrified, but you were fighting so hard to stay awake. In the ER, you see hundreds of people give up. You weren't giving up. I couldn't let you die.”
Julian’s gaze dropped to my lips.
The air between us grew thick, electric, heavy with an attraction that had been simmering beneath the surface since he knelt beside me on the church floor.
“I spent three years thinking an angel pulled me out of that fire,” Julian murmured, his voice dropping into a low, smoky register. “I was wrong. It wasn't an angel. It was a woman who makes me feel more alive than anyone I’ve ever known.”
He reached up, his hand cupping the side of my face, his thumb tracing the curve of my cheekbone.
“Julian...” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“Tell me to stop, Maya,” he breathed, leaning in closer, his forehead resting against mine. “Tell me right now, because if you don't, I’m going to kiss you, and I won't ever let you go back to being just a contractual bride.”
I looked at the scars on his chest. I looked at the strength in his eyes.
I didn't want to go back.
I reached up, tangled my fingers in his dark hair, and pulled his lips down to mine.
May you like
The kiss was hungry, desperate, and fierce. It was the collision of two people who had survived fires—mine made of humiliation and betrayal, his made of steel and gasoline. Julian pulled me onto his lap, his arms wrapping around my waist with possessive, unyielding strength, burying his face in my neck as we lost ourselves in the dark, healing storm.
***
