They sat at Xander’s kitchen table, Matt enticingly close—so close it’d be no trouble for Xander to pop his fist into the guy’s too-perfect schnoz.
For shit’s sake, she’s practically catatonic. Matt’s thoughts were nothing Xander hadn’t been hearing for a full three days. At least, when he chose to listen. He’d discovered that while within a certain proximity of Isleen, he could control what he heard and he never hurt. For the first time since the lightning strike, he could turn it off and on at will—the only silver lining in this funnel cloud of doom they were all swirling in. And he fucking hated storms.
“She isn’t catatonic. She responds to me.” That was a half-truth, and he damned well knew it. The only time she responded to him was when he got in bed with her. She snuggled up into his body, clinging to him as if she were about to be swept away by a rushing current of pain. He would whisper, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m with you. I’m here with you.” He didn’t know what else to say. Eventually, her grip on him would relax—not let go. Just relax.
“Dad’s the one who’s gone crazier than a tin of mixed nuts.” When Xander cared to listen to Matt and Row’s thoughts, he heard all about Dad raving nonsense and trashing the house and the Institute. “There’s a reason you’re sitting here in my cabin, drinking my coffee. There’s a reason Row is cooking in my kitchen, using my oven for her cinnamon rolls. Dad’s lost his jacks, and neither of you want to be there. So don’t tell me Isleen’s the one with the problem.”
“Hush now and eat.” Row slid a plate in front of each of them. Her cinnamon rolls were a sweet nirvana and an effective diversion from the blowout he and Matt had been edging closer to for days. “I’ll take one up to Isleen and see if I can get her to eat.” If she doesn’t eat—
Xander flipped the switch and turned off Row’s thoughts. Control was a wonderful thing. He didn’t need to hear any more about how worried Row was about Isleen. He had his own goddamned set of worries. There was no denying the situation was dire. She hadn’t gotten out of bed in three days. Hadn’t slept either. Not one wink. She just stared, but saying that wasn’t accurate—to stare implied she was actually looking at something and she wasn’t.
She’d barely eaten enough to keep a spring sparrow alive, and she wasn’t talking. Not one word. But Xander clung like a burr to the fact that she sought comfort from him. She wasn’t all gone. A piece of her remained.
They ate in the safety of silence, and Xander let his attention stray out the cabin’s many windows. The sky was the color of sorrow. Birds didn’t sing, branches didn’t sway, leaves didn’t rustle. It was kinda like the stillness of grief had pervaded the entire world.
Row came back downstairs and set the cinnamon roll on the counter. Only one bite was missing.
Matt’s gaze landed on the uneaten roll, then bounced back and forth between their empty plates. “She needs to be evaluated by a psychiatrist.”
Part of Xander recognized the truth in his uncle’s words. The other part said she just needed time.
“I’ve contacted Dr. Hendrix. He’s a trauma specialist,” Matt said. “Once I explained Isleen was one of the women from the news, he agreed to make a house call this afternoon. After the funeral.”
A cold jet of energy zipped along Xander’s scars. He recognized the feeling. The Bastard in His Brain was preparing for a performance. “By some miracle, her name hasn’t yet been leaked to the media, and you pull this? It’ll only take hours before the news vans are lined up at the end of the driveway.”
“He’s a professional. A trauma specialist. He’s dealt with this kind of thing before.”
“I don’t fucking care if he’s Sigmund Freud. You are not making decisions about her, her mental state, or her future. If he shows up, he better be an MMA championship fighter wearing a bulletproof vest.”
“You’d be content to allow her to continue this way? That”—Matt pointed over his head to Xander’s loft bedroom—“isn’t living.”
“You didn’t see the shithole she was imprisoned in. You didn’t see that bitch who held her captive. And you certainly will never see all the scars her body bears from what she’s endured. She’s been through the absolute worst life has had to offer, and she’s going to come out the other side. She just needs time. And patience. Not you trying to force her into the nuthouse.”
“She needs treatment. Medication. Counseling.”