I’m the epitome of calm as I walk to Logan’s side. The paragon of chill as I wrap my arms around his shoulders and ease him back into the pillows.
“Oh, fuck,” he mumbles into my neck. “You’re safe. They told me you were but I couldn’t be sure until I’d seen you. You’re okay, baby doll?”
I nod, tilting my head to avoid disturbing his bandages. “I’m fine, Daddy,” I whisper to him.
“Fuck, fuck,” he repeats. “I need to hold you, little girl. I was so fucking worried. All I could think was I was leaving you alone when I’d just found you. I need to get back to you—”
I feel the tension rise in him. His muscles strain against me. Remembering the doctor’s words, I hum soothingly.
“I’m here, Daddy. Everything’s okay. They’ll only let you hold me if you calm down. This can’t be good for your poor head.”
“My head.” He forces himself flat on the bed. “My fucking head. Feels like it’s exploding. You’re okay? You weren’t hurt? They’ll let me hold you?”
“Yes, Daddy. You just have to stay calm and the doctor will let you hold me. I’m fine. I wasn’t hurt. No one came after me. We’re both safe now. We’re in San Diego. Did they tell you that?”
“I can’t remember. I need to get out of here. I need to make sure you’re safe.”
My poor daddy. So fuddled. So overprotective, even when he’s the one who needs taking care of.
“It’s okay, Daddy, it’s all okay. We’re going to stay here a few days and then they’ll let us go home. I’ll stay right with you the whole time, and you’ll be able to see that I’m safe. I won’t leave you again.”
“Okay.” Logan takes a deep breath, blows it out slowly, and chuckles. “You stink, baby.”
I force a giggle. I probably do. He doesn’t smell great, either. Sweat and a nasty medicine-y smell and, underneath, blood. But none of that matters because he’s alive and awake and still my daddy.
“Vashi’s bringing my luggage and I’ll have a good wash so I don’t stink up your room.”
“Okay. They’ll let me hold you? I have something really important to tell you, but I have to hold you.”
I lift my head and look around for the doctor. She’s standing a few feet away, watching us. I’m sure she’s heard me call Logan “Daddy.” The knowledge heats my cheeks, but I push through the embarrassment. She’s a doctor; she’s probably heard worse. Daddy needs to hold me, and I need him to hold me, and the only way we’re both going to get what we need is if this woman gives permission.
“Dr. Lacey, I think he’s okay. I mean, he’s calm enough, isn’t he? He really wants to hold me.”
She gives me a gentle smile. “I’ll have someone remove his cuffs. Be patient a few minutes. Keep him calm and talking.”
The thing that will keep him calm is my submission.
“Dr. Lacey, could I rub his feet? That will keep him calm.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Yes, if you think that would help. Actually, that might really help. James doesn’t have much sensation in his left leg, so if you could stimulate the blood flow, we might be able to better assess whether there’s nerve damage.”
My poor daddy has nerve damage? I’ll rub his feet ten times a day if that’s what it takes.
I bend my head back to his ear. “Daddy, may I please rub your feet?”
“Rub my—? Oh, sure, little girl.”
Remembering that’s what he said when I asked for permission to rub his feet after he found out he might be the father of Miranda’s baby—and that Miranda is on her way right now—makes me smile sadly. I kiss him on the cheek, careful not to bump his bandaged head.
He’s quiet as I move down the bed, trailing my hands over him so we don’t lose contact. When I reach his feet, I start with his right foot. Rubbing around the leather cuff is awkward, so I concentrate on his sole, working my thumbs in, stretching and flexing his knotted, rigid muscles. While I rub, I hum, happy, soothing tunes: Rusted Root’s “Send Me On My Way” and Hot Chocolate’s “You Sexy Thing.” Anything I can think of that might keep Daddy quiet and relaxed.
I’m working on his heel when a man nearly as big as Niall pushes through the curtains. The man gives me a couple of odd looks but doesn’t say anything to me as he unbuckles the leather cuffs around Logan’s wrists and left ankle.
I could have done that myself ten minutes ago. The doctor made it sound like taking the restraints off required some sort of special expertise.
The orderly doesn’t try to remove the cuff on the foot I’m rubbing, even after I move out of the way. He just watches me rub for a moment. Then he grunts and reaches down, placing his thumbs near mine and pushing them away from each other to stretch Logan’s arch.
“Smooth the muscles back into place after you’ve worked them,” he grunts.
I watch before imitating his movement.
The orderly nods his bald head. “That’s right. There’s good evidence that massage speeds healing. If you can keep this up twice a day for a few weeks, he’ll have a better chance of making a full recovery.”
“I will,” I promise.
“He lashes out or tries to get outta the bed and I’ll have to lock him down again,” the orderly says sternly.
“I understand. He was just confused and thought I was in danger. Now that he knows I’m safe, he’ll be fine.”
At least, I really, really hope so.
“Okay, little lady, I’ll hold you to that.” He unbuckles the last restraint, but leaves the cuffs all clipped to big metal loops set into the bedframe. “Doctor’ll tell me when
