Clearing my throat, I spoke with authority, taking the tone she’d always responded to. “Ms. Taylor.”
She blinked several times, immediately stood, and presented herself to me, head bowed, feet shoulder-width apart. I lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “I want to go home, Sir. I’ll be a good girl, please,” she whimpered, then fell into my arms.
The sobs broke free, and I stood there holding her while Dr. Anthony stared like I was some kind of freak of nature. I rushed to cancel my appointment and went about finding out how to get her released. The notes from her file came back to me in waves, and nausea consumed me.
“She’s practically family. I took her on as a client for a good friend. She went missing a couple of weeks ago,” I told the doctor in charge of the unit.
“I’m not sure if it will be possible with the ongoing investigation. If she went missing, surely there is some report of it,” he muttered as he went over the documentation I had of our patient/therapist relationship.
I got in touch with the chief of police in Seattle because Alek had mentioned he had opened a case, but nothing had come of it. He pulled some strings andconfirmed with the London police that the report had been filed. Then I convinced the chief to let me be the one to tell Alek.
It took some time, but they let me take her home, provided I kept her under twenty-four-hour supervision. I put off telling the guys. If I had some time alone with her, maybe I could uncover what happened.
The last thing she needed was them storming through the door, demanding answers. Given her fragile state of mind, it would be for the best. I shuddered as her file notes once more filtered through my brain like a bulleted list. I had no idea how Alek, Nik, and Ivan would process this.
Glancing over, I waited for a copy of her file notes. Once I’d put them in my bag, I walked over to her chair. “Come with me, Ms. Taylor. I’m going to take you home now.”
“Home,” she whispered. I put my hand out, and she grabbed it without hesitation.
As we walked outside, I couldn’t shake the unmistakable bond I had with this girl and what she meant to me—not in a way that made sense to other people. She wasn’t family. She wasn’t mine. But somehow, I still felt responsible for the weight she carried.
Our sessions had peeled back layers of pain, and even if I didn’t understand the full picture, I was too much a part of her storm to pretend I wasn’t. I saw her in a way the guys couldn’t. That’s what bonded us. I opened the car door; she got in without a word. A few slow breaths later, I moved to the driver’s side.
“Dr. Marcel?” she murmured once we started driving.
“Yes,” I said, giving her a quick glance before my focus shifted back to the road.
“Can you give me a few days before you tell the guys? I want to tell you everything. I think I’m ready,” she cried.
My heart hammered inside my chest. I was elated I didn’t have to pressure her, and her words were like music to my ears. “I think I’m ready.” Even so, a hint of apprehension flared to life. The weight of what she’d been through snapping me back to center.
“Yes, of course. It can wait, absolutely. I’m so proud of you. We’ll take it slow. How does that sound?” I spoke calmly.
“Thank you,” she sobbed, leaning her head against my shoulder.
We pulled through the gate, and I cut the engine. There was no flicker of recognition. No glance at the house. Just the same vacant stare through the windshield, like she hadn’t even noticed we’d stopped. I got out slowly, not wanting to startle her, and came around to her side. The gravel crunched under my shoes, loud inthe quiet. Her hands stayed folded in her lap, unmoving, even as I opened the door.
“Hey,” I murmured. No response. “We’re here.” Still nothing. I crouched down a little and softened my tone. “Can you give me your hand?”
It took a few more tries and a “Ms. Taylor” thrown in before she blinked, like waking from something far deeper than sleep. Finally, she placed her hand in mine, allowing me to help her out of the car and up the steps.
Branson, our butler, waited right inside the door, hands folded neatly in front of him. The moment she saw him, her body tensed. Visibly shaking, she shrank inward, shoulders curling, and moved closer to me until the space between us disappeared.
“Kinsley, this is Branson. He’s the London version of Gerald. If you need anything, you can always ask him, and he’ll help you.”
“Yes, Sir.” She glanced at him and then looked away.
“Why don’t I show you to your room? You can lie down and relax before dinner.” I led her toward one of our guest rooms. My mind was in prep mode. She’d need clothes, and I knew exactly who to ask to get them.
“Alek, Nik, and Ivan’s rooms are across the hall, so this is a good place for you.”
Her head shot up, and tears sprang to her eyes.
“They live here too?”
“Yes, Sebastian does as well. Are you okay with that?”
“Yes, Sir.”
