Chapter 181
Elara
I backed out of the room, and the nurse gave me a small, sympathetic smile before closing the door most of the way, leaving just enough of a gap that I could see through if I positioned myself right.
So I did. I stood there in the hallway, arms wrapped around myself, and watched through the narrow opening as they began to work on him.
The doctor moved with practiced efficiency, assessing the damage, giving quiet orders to the nurses. One of them started an IV line in Julian's arm while the other prepared syringes of what I assumed were antibiotics and pain medication. Julian sat perfectly still through all of it, his hands gripping the edge of the examination table, knuckles white with tension.
When the doctor began cleaning the wounds, I saw his entire body go rigid. His jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might crack, and his fingers dug into the padded table until I could see the tendons standing out in his hands. But he didn't make a sound. Didn't cry out, didn't ask them to stop, didn't do anything except breathe through it in short, controlled bursts that made his shoulders shake.
I felt something twist in my chest, sharp and painful. This man—this stubborn, infuriating man—had let his grandfather beat him bloody rather than give up his right to choose me. Had taken thirty lashes without begging for mercy, had walked out of that house on his own two feet and driven straight to find me, and now he was sitting in this sterile room refusing to show weakness even though there was no one here who would judge him for it.
My hands curled into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. I'd spent so long being angry at him, so long building walls and telling myself I didn't care, that I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to see him in pain and actually feel it echo in my own chest.
The doctor finished cleaning and began suturing, her hands steady and sure as she stitched the deepest wounds closed. Julian's breathing got faster, more labored, and I saw a fine tremor start in his shoulders that spread down his spine. Sweat dripped down his temple, and his face had gone from pale to a sickly gray that made my stomach clench with fear.
I wanted to look away. Wanted to walk down the hallway and find a bathroom where I could splash cold water on my face and remind myself that this wasn't my problem, that I'd told him I didn't want this, that I'd been perfectly clear about keeping my distance.
But I couldn't move. Couldn't tear my eyes away from the sight of him enduring this with that terrible, silent strength that was somehow more devastating than any amount of crying or complaining would have been.
The doctor worked for what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes, methodically closing each wound with neat, precise stitches.
When she finally finished, she stepped back and pulled off her gloves, saying something to Julian that I couldn't quite hear through the door. He nodded, and she patted his uninjured shoulder before turning to prepare the bandaging supplies.
That was when I realized I'd been holding my breath. I let it out slowly, feeling lightheaded and shaky, and forced myself to unclench my hands. There were deep crescents in my palms where my nails had dug in, little half-moons of pain that felt insignificant compared to what Julian had just endured.
One of the nurses was preparing cotton swabs and antibiotic ointment, laying everything out on a sterile tray with practiced efficiency. The doctor was speaking quietly to Julian, probably explaining aftercare instructions, her expression professionally sympathetic.
And suddenly, I couldn't stand it anymore. Couldn't stand watching him sit there alone, couldn't stand the careful distance I'd been maintaining, couldn't stand the way my heart was screaming at me to do something, anything, to help.
I pushed the door open before I could talk myself out of it, my voice coming out rougher than I'd intended. "Doctor, let me do that."
Everyone turned to look at me. The doctor's eyebrows rose slightly, and the nurses exchanged glances. But it was Julian's expression that made my breath catch—the flash of surprise in his eyes, followed by something that looked dangerously close to hope.
"Miss Vance," the doctor said carefully, "these wounds are quite severe. The application of the ointment needs to be—"
"I'll be gentle," I interrupted, then softened my tone. "Please. I want to help."
The doctor looked at Julian, clearly seeking his approval. He was staring at me like he couldn't quite believe I was real, his eyes wide and unguarded in a way I'd rarely seen. Then he gave a small nod, barely perceptible.
"Very well," the doctor said. She gestured to the tray of supplies. "These are antibiotic ointments. Apply them very carefully around the sutured areas—not directly on the stitches themselves, but on the surrounding tissue. The wounds are extremely sensitive right now, so the lightest touch possible." She demonstrated the technique on one small area, then stepped back. "I'll be just outside if you need me."
The nurses followed her out, and suddenly it was just the two of us in the quiet treatment room, the door clicking softly shut behind them.
I stood there for a moment, suddenly uncertain. What was I doing? Why had I volunteered for this? But Julian was watching me, and I couldn't back out now even if I'd wanted to.
I moved to the supply tray, my hands not quite steady as I picked up one of the cotton swabs. The ointment was thick and clear, smelling faintly of medicine and something else I couldn't identify. I dipped the swab in carefully, getting just enough on the tip, then turned to face Julian's back.
The wounds looked even worse up close. Angry red lines crisscrossed his shoulders and upper back, some of them deep enough that I could see the layers of tissue beneath. The stitches were neat and precise, but they couldn't hide the violence that had created these injuries. Couldn't erase the fact that his own grandfather had done this to him.
My hand was shaking as I brought the swab toward the first wound. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and very gently touched the cotton to the inflamed skin just beside the stitches.
Julian's entire body went rigid. His hands clenched on the edge of the table, and I heard his breath hiss between his teeth, but he didn't pull away. Didn't tell me to stop.
"Sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," he said, and his voice was hoarse but steady. "Keep going."