Page 97 of Wicked Vile King
"I am getting better," I protest. "I've been attending therapy sessions. I've been taking my meds. I just needed to talk about it, that's all. I'm not suicidal or anything. I just needed to talk."
I scoot to the edge of the chaise as he rounds the desk, needle still in hand.
"Let me help you, Willow," he tells me, but there's a lump in my middle that's growing larger by the second, cutting off my air. I can't breathe.
I don't want the needle. Don't give me the needle.
I stand.
"It's okay," I say.
"Sit down, Willow," Dr. Cross commands, his words sharp enough to cut.
I remain standing, and he adds, "You may sit down, or I will call for assistance."
I sit, but I'm shaking and shivering on the seat.
"Really," I tell him, "I promise, Dr. Cross, I don't need that. Please don't make me take that."
"Willow," he taps the syringe and depresses it just a little until a drop of liquid rolls down the needle, "there's nothing to be afraid of. It will help."
"But . . ." I begin.
His glare lands on me again. "Do I need to call for assistance, Ms. Cadelle?"
"No." I shake my head, defeated.
"Good girl," he says, dropping to one knee, "now roll up your sleeve. It'll only take a moment."
I do, and my heart is beating so fast, and I can't stop looking at it, even when he inserts it into my arm and I wince as he depresses the syringe. It burns.
"Ow," I murmur. "Ow, ow, ow, ow."
He withdraws the needle and blows over my skin. "It will pass. Give it a minute."
"Willow?" he says, rising to his feet. I look up at him, and it makes me dizzy. The chaise catches me and holds me upright.
Whoa.
"I don't feel well," I tell him, or I try to, but the words are thick and muddled, called from far away.
"Shh," Dr. Cross says, smiling down at me, but I don't like his smile. It's not a real smile. It doesn't reach his cold green eyes or show any teeth. The vision of him standing in his white lab coat glitches.
"Shh," he tells me, the word soft, "it's okay, Willow."
"But . . ." I begin, the word slow to surface, tied down by invisible weights. I try to stand, but the entire room glitches this time, and I fall back onto the chaise.
"Go to sleep," he tells me, reaching over to pet my hair as my vision goes in and out from black to light and to black again.
"Help," I say to him, or I think I do as he looks down at me.
The world shutters, but before it does, I swear I hear him say, "Shh, sweet girl, the doctor will take care of you now."
And at his words, it's all I can do to sleep.
27
SAINT
