SANTIAGO
The past week has been a long, uphill battle. Every time Dr. Pires decreases the sedative, Ciara becomes hysterical, and the doctor has to give her something to calm down again.
Whatever Ciara’s been through seems to have broken her, and it’s going to be a long battle to help her heal from her trauma.
But I’ve dealt with this kind of situation before, so I know how to handle it.
My men are still looking for any leads on who held her captive.
I’m standing out in the hallway because Ciara showed signs of waking up, and Dr. Pires wants to see if my little ray of sunshine will respond better to being alone with a woman.
Through the open door, I listen as Dr. Pires says, “Hi, Ciara. I’m Dr. Pires. You’re safe in the hospital.” There’s a long moment of silence before she continues, “Can you tell me how you feel?”
More silence follows the question before I hear Ciara whisper, “Nolan.”
“Who’s Nolan?” Dr. Pires asks, her tone patient and kind. A few seconds later, I hear her curse, “Shit. Santiago!”
I hurry inside, and it has Ciara stopping in the middle of the room the instant she sees me. She glances wildly around, then runs toward the bathroom.
Before she can shut the door, I grab hold of her from behind, quickly locking my arm around her upper body. I press my other hand to her forehead, pinning her to me so she won’t hurt herself.
When Dr. Pires hurries to get an injection, I say, “No. No more. Leave the room and lock the door.”
“Are you sure?”
Ciara struggles with all her might, and it has me snapping, “Leave.”
Dr. Pires hurries out of the hospital room, and when I hear the door shut and the lock engages, I quickly let go of Ciara and step away from her.
She darts away from me, and coming to a stop on the other side of the room, she wildly glances around before dropping down and crawling beneath the bed.
Christ. My heart.
I move backward to give her space, then take a seat on the cold floor before leaning against the wall. Tilting my head, I look at the frightened woman.
“You’re safe, Ciara. No one is going to hurt you.”
She nervously glances at me, then curls into a small ball, pressing her face to her knees and wrapping her arms around her shins.
“I’m Santiago Castro,” I say again because I don’t think she’s retained any of the information I’ve given her the past week. “I have a big property here in Peru where I’ve created a village for people like you. People who have suffered too much and have nowhere to go.”
We sit in silence for a long while, and every few minutes, she peeks at me before hiding her face again.
“Carmen, one of the women I saved, gave birth to a son three months ago. Thiago is so cute. I think you’ll love him.” The corner of my mouth lifts. “He loves sleeping in my arms.”
She peeks at me again, but this time, her eyes flick to the bathroom as well.
“Do you need to use the bathroom?” I ask.
Slowly, she nods, her movements jerky and tense.
I’ll just have to break down the door if she locks herself in there.
Hopefully, it doesn’t come to that.
I gesture at the open door. “You can go at any time.”
She places her hand on the floor and cautiously begins to drag herself out from under the bed.
Wanting to see what she’ll do, I stop looking at her and pull my phone out of my pocket.
Santiago: Bring a bowl of chicken soup to Ciara’s room. Knock on the door, then leave it outside on the floor.
I send the text to Dr. Pires, then just keep staring at my phone while I listen to Ciara slowly moving toward the bathroom.
When she suddenly darts inside, I remain sitting, but I’m surprised when she doesn’t shut the door.
I listen as she relieves her bladder, but a few seconds later, a soft sob has my head snapping up.
Climbing to my feet, I walk closer to the door and ask, “Are you okay, Ciara?”
Her breaths become audible, and when it sounds like she’s hyperventilating, I rush into the bathroom.
Ciara’s still sitting on the toilet, her arms wrapped around her middle and her eyes squeezed shut.
I take hold of her shoulders and help her up into a standing position before I crouch down to pull her panties up her legs.
When I straighten out again, I wrap my arms around her and press her face to my chest.
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “You’re safe, mi pequeño sol.”
I just hold her, repeating the words until she finally begins to calm down on her own.
That’s a step in the right direction.
A knock at the door has her yanking free from my hold and running to hide under the bed again.
I open the door, and seeing Dr. Pires holding the tray with the soup, I raise an eyebrow at her.
She peeks into the room, then whispers, “How is she doing?”
“It’s touch and go.” I take the tray from her and say, “You can lock the door again.”
“Call me if you need me.”
I nod and watch as she pulls the door shut before locking it.
Carrying the tray to the bed, I crouch and set it down on the floor before slowly pushing it closer to Ciara, where she’s still under the bed.
Without a word, I get up and walk to the armchair. I sit down, and with a clear view of the tray, I wait to see what will happen.
I check the time on my wristwatch and sit still for thirty minutes. When Ciara doesn’t touch the soup, I get up again and sit down on the floor beside the bed.
Leaning down, I look at her. “You haven’t had solid food for a while. Aren’t you hungry?”
Her chin begins to quiver, her eyes darting between me and the tray.
“You can eat,” I murmur in case she needs permission.
We sit like this for another ten minutes before she pulls herself out from under the bed, then she moves into a kneeling position and opens her mouth.
The blood chills in my veins, but I keep my expression relaxed as I pick up the spoon and scoop some soup into it. When I bring the spoon to her mouth, she lets me feed her before lowering her head again.
Jesus Christ, she’s been severely conditioned.
I scoop more into the spoon, and when I lift my hand, Ciara opens her mouth again.
I feed her two more spoonfuls before I say, “Take hold of the spoon.” It takes a few seconds before she unclenches her tight fist, and I’m able to place the spoon between her fingers. “Feed yourself.”
She lowers her head again and stares at the spoon for long minutes.
When it’s clear she’s not going to feed herself, I take hold of her hand and move it, scooping some soup onto the spoon before lifting it to her mouth.
Her gaze darts to mine, a pleading expression flitting over her beautiful features.
“I want you to eat the soup,” I say to encourage her.
Her movements are jerky, and it looks like she’s battling with herself before she takes the bite.
I give her hand a squeeze and smile before moving her hand back down to the bowl to get more soup. It takes a minutes to get her to swallow two spoonfuls, but then tears begin to well in her eyes.
I tilt my head, keeping my expression gentle. “Do you want to talk to me?”
She lowers her head again, and the tear splats onto the tiled floor.
It takes one hell of a swing at my heart, and I have to suppress the urge to comfort her.
“The soup is really nice,” she suddenly whispers.
“It’s all for you,” I say as I let go of her hand. “Eat for me, Ciara.”
It takes close to an hour before I get her to take a bite on her own.
“I’m so proud of you,” I praise her, and it has her eyes lifting to my face. I see some relief easing the tension from her features. Taking a chance, I ask, “Can you tell me anything about yourself?”
Her head lowers again, and she stares at the empty bowl. When it’s clear she’s not going to say anything, I try again, asking, “How old are you?”
The spoon slips from her fingers and clatters onto the floor, then she begins to shake her head, her features tightening as she whimpers, “I was twenty-six. I’m not sure anymore.”
When I lift my arm to offer her some comfort, she moves fast, crawling back under the bed.
Letting out a heavy breath, I pick up the tray and climb to my feet. My legs and ass protest from sitting for such a long time on the cold tiles, and it has me setting the tray down on the table before I pull the covers and sheets off the bed. Dragging the mattress to the floor, I say, “Move aside so I can place the mattress under the bed for you.”
Ciara scoots out the other side and watches as I position the mattress on the floor before covering it haphazardly with the sheet.
“You can move back.” I wait as she cautiously crawls onto the makeshift bed, then I push the covers closer. “Cover yourself.”
She does as she’s told, and I feel a fuck-ton better that she’s listening to me.
I climb to my feet again and walk to the armchair, taking a seat while thinking we made a lot of progress today.
At least we didn’t have to sedate her.
