Bound (Secrets of the Djinn) (4 page)

Cursing under his breath, Roman feels
along my shoulder joint.  The look on his face confirms my suspicions.  “This is going to hurt.”  Without giving me a chance to even catch my breath, he has a hand braced on my collar bone and a tight grip on my bicep.  In a quick, precise motion, he rolls me towards him and he rams my shoulder back into its socket.  My scream is probably heard three miles away.

“Damn, I’m glad that was you and not me,” Brielle says. 

“Shut up,” Zane growls.  This is the first time I’ve seen him truly annoyed with his baby sister.  Brielle is wise enough to keep her mouth closed.

Feeling along the joint again, Roman says, “
It’s in place now.  Does it still hurt like it did a moment ago?”

I assume he means before his medical torture.  “No, it’s better.”

“Good.  I’m going to roll you all the way over now.”

I brace myself for the pain.  My shoulder
may only be sore now but my wrist is still throbbing.  When I’m on my back, Roman lifts my arm and leans it against his leg while his fingers move up and down from my finger tips to my elbow.  “Pain anywhere other than the joint?” he asks.  I shake my head.  “Numbness or tingling into your hand or towards your elbow?”

I nod. 
“My thumb and index finger are numb.”  I know from my medical school classes this is a serious problem, otherwise I’d be relieved at the lack of pain in those areas.

Roman pokes and prods at my wrist until I’m ready to scream.  “You have a Smith’s fracture.”  It sounds more like an accusation than a diagnosis.

I remember the term from one of my texts.  “I landed on the top of my hand,” I confirm.

“What’s a Smith’s fracture?” Zane asks.

Scowling, Roman bends my hand slightly and I hiss in pain.  “When she put her hand out to break her fall, it was palm up instead of palm down.”

Brielle snorts.  “You can’t even fall right.  You are a delicate flower.”

“Brielle.”  There’s a warning in Zane’s voice.

“What?
  She is.” she snarks back.

“What the sam hell is going on in here?” Hank’s voice booms from the doorway.  He has shotgun in hand and is looking for a target.  He thought my scream was from an attack.

Zane doesn’t take his eyes from me.  “Skye fell.” 

Hank’s confused.  “She’s just now screaming about it?”

Brielle laughs.  “She fell
again
.”

“There’s a snag in the carpet.  Her crutch got caught,” Zane explains.

Hank searches the carpet.  When he finds the snag, he goes to it and bends down.  “This wasn’t here an hour ago.”

Brielle shrugs.  “The crutches probably caused it.”

Hank’s face is clouded with doubt as he looks at the rubber tipped crutches.  He picks each up, assessing it for sharp edges.  “These didn’t snag the carpet.”

“I need to do an external
reduction of Skye’s wrist,” Roman says, bringing all eyes back to him instead of the carpet.  Shit.  That’s going to hurt.

“What
do you mean?” Zane asks.

“
He means I need a lot of whiskey and some more ibuprofen,” I mutter from the floor.  Roman’s mouth quirks up in a half smile.

“Well, you know where the whiskey is,” Hank says with a wink.
  Whiskey is the drink of choice around here, no sissy mixed drinks allowed.

“What do you really need?” Zane asks.

Roman chuckles.  “She was serious.”  His face sobering, he adds, “It’s going to hurt when I realign the bones.  The more pain meds she has on board, the better because she’s going to be in pain for a while.  This is usually done under anesthesia.  Relaxing her muscles with alcohol isn’t ideal, but it may make it easier to bear while conscious.”

Zane looks down at my limp arm, still supported by Roman’s leg.  The bone didn’t break the skin, but it’s obviously fractured.  M
y ulna is sticking up at an awkward angle and it’s virtually impossible at the moment for my arm to form a straight line.  The fact that my thumb, index, and now my middle finger are numb means an external reduction may be wishful thinking on Roman’s part.  I may end up with permanent nerve damage without surgery.

“One of you boys get her upstairs.  You ain’t doing this while she’s lying on the floor.  Brielle, gather up the things Roman needs,” Hank says.

“When did I become the house nurse?” Brielle snaps.

“When your granddaddy told you to be,” Mrs. Gregori says from the doorway, her tone more amused than anything.  Brielle rolls her eyes but
leaves the room.  Hopefully in search of the whiskey.

“Skye, I’m going to lift you up,” Roman tells me, carefully sliding his hands into position.

With an edge of steel in his voice, Zane says, “I’ll carry her.”

Roman looks up at him.  “No, you won’t.  There could still be serious damage to her shoulder and her arm can’t be jostled around.  I haven’t assess
ed her for other injuries yet.  I want to make sure moving her from one place to another doesn’t make things worse.”  I think he’s being too dramatic, but I don’t say so out loud.  I don’t want to make things worse.

“This ain’t no pissing contest, son,” Hank says, placing a hand on Zane’s shoulder.  “Let the doctor do his job.”

If Zane’s face turns any redder, he could pass for a ketchup bottle.  “Fine,” is all he manages to say.

Unconcerned about upsetting Zane, Roman goes back to what he was doing.  He’s right about my shoulder still being sore.  When he moves his hand underneath it, I have to hold back a hiss of pain.  Zane can see it on my face, though. 
I wonder how much of my pain he can feel. 

The
jealous tension leaves his body and he’s back to being the concerned boyfriend. “What can I do to help?” Zane asks.  

After a quick glance to make sure he’s being sincere, Roman says, “Get her bed ready for her.  Pile some pillows up so she’s at a forty-five degree angle
and can drink.  I’m not going to do anything until she’s at least mildly drunk.”

“Wish I’d come across a doc like you when I was injured,” Hank says, winking at me. 

Zane leaves the room ahead of us.  In one swift movement, Roman lifts me from the floor and I manage to only whimper.  He carries me from the library to the elevator.   I press the button for the second floor with my good hand.  In a hushed voice, Roman asks, “Is something going on with you we should be concerned about?”

I grimace as the elevator lurches into action.  “Except for the fact I’m a
klutz, no.”  Roman isn’t convinced but he doesn’t say any more.

When the elevator door slides open, he maneuvers me through it
, managing to keep my injured limbs from being jarred too much.  He brings me to the room I share with Zane.  It’s almost exactly like the guest room I had when I first arrived with one important difference.  It’s not right next door to Roman’s room.  As much as it kills him I moved in with Zane, he appreciates not hearing the telltale sounds of our sex life.

Zane is already in the room doing as instructed.  Roman carries me to the bed and lays me against the pillows.  I wince as my shoulder objects to having pressure against it once more.  I close my eyes and take several deep breaths, willing my body to relax.

“Your lunch is served,” Brielle says.  She sets a bottle of whiskey on the nightstand along with a glass and some ibuprofen.  My empty stomach isn’t thrilled by the sight of either the pills or the alcohol 

Brielle takes the glass to the bathroom and comes back with
it full of water.  “Pills first,” she says, opening the small plastic bottle of ibuprofen.  She shakes out four pills and hands them to me.  I don’t worry about the fact it’s only been a couple of hours since I took my last four pills.  I pop them in my mouth and she hands me the glass of water.  For all her bitching about being a nurse, she’s not half bad at it.

“Thank you.” 

She sits down on the end of the bed.  “Hank’s right, something’s wrong.  Even you aren’t this big of a klutz.”

“Gee, thanks.” 
Her bedside manner needs some work.

“Seriously.  You
’ve jogged that trail repeatedly, we all have.  The library carpet was fine this morning according to Hank and Grams.”

“What are you thinking, gremlins?” Zane teases.  He’s sitting next to me on the bed now
, being careful not to jostle me.

Brielle shrugs off his comment.  “Seriously, something’s wrong, I can feel it.”

“Sympathy pains?” I ask, trying to smile.

She snorts.  “Please.”

I should tell her about the feeling of being pushed I had both times I fell, but the idea of invisible gremlins causing my accidents is ridiculous.  I shake my head.  “Like you said, I’m just a klutz.  I wasn’t watching where I was going and I tripped and then I was careless with the crutches.  That’s all there is to it.”

“Drink up,” Roman instructs, handing me a glass of whiskey.

I glance down at the glass and then back up at him.  “I feel stupid sitting here drinking alone.”

Brielle grins and leaves the room.  She returns shortly with two more glasses. 
To Roman, she says, “Sorry, Doc, you’d better stay sober.  We don’t want her arm to fall off when you try to treat it drunk.”

Roman chuckles.  “You are very wise.”  Tossing clothes onto the floor, Roman clears off the one chair in the room
and has a seat.  “Drink away.”

After filling her
s and Zane’s glasses, Brielle holds hers up in a toast.  “To the most delicate flower I’ve ever met.”

“Brielle,” Zane growls.

I pat him with my good hand.  “She’s just teasing.”  She’s not, but I don’t want them to argue.

Sipping my whiskey, I enjoy the burn as
it flows down my throat.  After several more sips, the alcohol is doing its job.  I didn’t eat much for breakfast so the whiskey has a clear path to my bloodstream.  My body is growing warm and the throbbing in my wrist is dulling slightly.

“Another toast,” Brielle says, raising her glass into the awkward silence
. “To defeating the djinn.”

“I second that,” Zane says.  He downs the rest of his whiskey in one gulp.

Brielle eyes my glass.  “Quit being a pansy, drink up,”

“I
still feel stupid trying to get drunk in front of you guys,” I admit.

“Alright, let’s play a game for shots,” Zane says, a wicked gleam in his eye.

“What kind of game?”  I ask.  I suppose I can rule out anything too risqué since his sister is playing.

Reaching over to the nightstand, Zane opens a drawer and pulls out a deck of cards.  “Black jack,
loser does a shot.”  He deals out two cards to each of us, one up and one down.  “Skye, hit or stay?”

I peek at my cards.  I have a king and a five.  “Hit.”

Zane flips over a card and places a two on top of the five showing.  “Stay,” I say, knowing I’m going to lose.

After getting another card Brielle ends up at nineteen. 
Zane has a ten and a king.  “Do your shot,” Brielle says with glee. 

After a few more rounds, I’m not the only one getting drunk.  While we play our game and drink our whiskey, Roman sits in the chair watching.  Watching me, actually.  I feel his eyes on me and I want to tell him to look at something else, but I don’t want to bring Zane’s attention to it.  I do my best to ignore his scrutinizing gaze.

Half an hour later, Roman decides I’ve had enough whiskey.  He sits next to me on the bed.  “Are you ready?” he asks.

Stupid question.  “No.”  My vowel sound is drawn out into a slight slur.

Ignoring my response to his apparently rhetorical question, he says to Brielle, “I need you to hold her legs down.”

Brielle shakes her head.  “No way
am I getting kicked in the face.”

“He didn’t’ say ‘lay your face on her legs’,” Zane says.  “Just sit on them.”  Brielle ponders her options for a moment before moving farther onto the bed so she can sit on my legs.

“Ow,” I whine.  “My knees aren’t supposed to bend that way.”

“Damn delicate flower,” Brielle grumbles under her breath but she moves off my knees.

“What do you want me to do?” Zane asks.

“You are going to hold the rest of her down,” Roman says.

A grin spreads across Zane’s face.  “I like that idea.”

“It
’s important she doesn’t move while I’m doing this,” Roman emphasizes.

Brielle, ever the patient one, says, “Got it, Doc, just get on with it.”

Zane helps me sit up so Roman can remove the pillows I’m resting on.  When I am flat on the bed, Zane straddles my torso so he can get a tight grip on my good arm while holding my upper body still.  He places a hand on the center of my chest with enough pressure to keep me from bucking up.

Roman
is miserable over what he’s going to do.  Lifting my arm gently, he asks, “Do you want me to warn you when I’m going to do it?”

As I debate whether or not I want to know when the pain is coming, Roman tugs on my arm. 
Apparently, that was another rhetorical question.  A scream is torn from my throat.  My wrist is aflame with pain and I try to pull it back but Roman’s grip is too strong.  Without another word, he manipulates my bones again.  I try to thrash my legs, but Brielle is doing a good job and I can’t move them.