Connie managed to stand tall, pulling the blanket around her more securely. She edged toward her clothes, noting Atticus's exasperated expression. Without his scent and heat giving her the comfort her sub needed, she felt more in control. Seeing the cuffs still clasped around her wrists knocked her confidence for a second, but she recovered quickly and tried to wrestle them off. “This was a mistake, Atticus. I need to go home, I need to check on Alicia and…and…” Shaking, she bent and swiped her pants off the carpet.
Seemingly understanding her distress, Atticus rose with a sigh and guided her to the bed. He yanked the covers back and stripped the blanket from her shoulders, nudging her until she sat on cool sheets. Gently, he lifted each hand and deftly unfastened the cuffs, linking them together and attaching them to his belt. At some point, he must have pulled on his pants and left them casually undone, but she couldn't remember when.
He made her lie down, urging her head onto the pillow as she trembled. “Bad girl, Connie, undoing all my hard cuddling. Take a nap for ten, you'll feel better.” He ran his fingers through her hair. “It's going to get easier, I promise.”
Connie huddled under the covers as he drew them up to her chin, rolling onto her side and into the fetal position. Anything would be easier than this rattled sensation, as though over a decade of building new foundations hadn't gone to waste in a single night. She watched him stroll around to the other side of the bed, stretching out beside her on top of the covers and giving her a strong, warm form to lean back against.
She hated him for turning her world upside down, but was so grateful for his presence, she couldn’t say the words.
*
Monday morning came too soon after a weekend of ups and downs.
Connie sat at her desk and scrubbed her hands over her face. There was a file in front of her for one Caera Anderson, twenty-one years old, who was incapable of sleeping more than a couple of hours over the span of days. It had the vibe of a difficult case, and after the weekend, Connie just didn't know if she could cope with another boulder on her back.
Friday night, she'd slept until after closing. Atticus had stayed with her the entire time, and she'd woken to a chilled bottle of water and little chocolate drops. He'd helped her dress, made sure she was fit to drive, then followed her all the way home like a dutiful bodyguard. Even escorted her to her front door, and would have steered her to the bedroom if she hadn't denied him access.
She'd been too wiped out, mentally and emotionally, to start picking through the remnants of her life, but they were waiting for her the next morning. Stress piled upon stress when Alicia declined to visit Bodie, then locked herself in her room when Connie quietly asked about the reading and writing lessons. Apparently, that was a touchy subject, not to be prodded at the wrong time.
Connie had decided to stay home on Saturday night, not feeling up to dealing with the concerned glances of her friends. There would be questions, she knew, and she didn't know how to face Atticus again. Not when he already had plans in place to make their situation a regular thing.
Not because he liked her as a woman, but because he'd decreed her behavior was self-destructive and harmful. Her thoughts turned bitter as she wondered how much of a hardship it must be to fuck a woman—a friend, she corrected—when she didn’t come close to being his type. Not that it held any bearing, she told herself. He'd still fucked her with all the respect he gave any of his submissives.
Yesterday hadn't been an improvement. She'd had to fend off several phone calls from the group, ignoring all their messages as she sat with her head in her hands and listened to heavy rock music pounding the walls of her home. After recalling what Atticus had threatened to do to Archie's apartment when she wouldn't let anyone in, Connie had sent messages to everyone, declaring she 'wasn't at home', then turned her phone off and slumped on the couch for over an hour. She hadn't gone to the club last night either.
By Monday morning, working on a lack of sleep, she was ready to hop on a plane and disappear somewhere warm and safe. That was all she needed, a vacation. None of this submit and surrender, regardless of how relaxed she'd been after the flogging and fucking. She just needed some time to herself, for herself, and she could come back to reality as the confident Domme she was.
But now, she had to set her own problems aside and figure out how to help a young woman whose life was circling the drain because she couldn't sleep. Caera's file was disturbingly sparse on details from her previous therapists, but the one glaring term that kept jumping out at Connie was night terrors.
There was a list of drugs from the benzodiazepine family which had been prescribed by all…four, Connie counted with an eye roll, of Caera's previous therapists, with the dosage getting higher with each physician. She shook her head—it was a wonder the girl wasn't an addict. Connie had been forced to give Archie a dose after the traumatic night that had left two men dead and Jasper temporarily paralyzed, but she'd been hesitant to give her friend even that small dose. If Archie hadn't been in akinetic catatonia, Connie wouldn't have given her any at all.
At the timid tap-tap on her door, Connie sighed and stood, moving quickly as she ran Caera's notes through her head. No one seemed to be looking beneath the surface of the issue—all efforts had been focused on smothering the symptoms under a blanket of pharmaceuticals.
Well, things would be different this time around.
She opened the door with a smile, not letting it fade as her new patient almost passed out in shock. The girl stumbled back, knees buckling, with a hoarse cry of alarm. Her already pale cheeks lost more color, highlighting the gauntness of her face and the bruised, sunken hollows of her eye sockets. Huge green eyes—shades lighter than Atticus's—were round with anxiety, but the soul in the heart of them was hidden beneath dull acceptance.
Connie's empathic heart sank with grief at the sight of her.
Keeping her voice low, she stepped back and murmured, “You must be Caera. Come on in, sweetheart.”
Trembling, the girl assessed the doorway and the room beyond, then took a hesitant step toward the threshold. She was the same height as Connie—although Connie's boots added an extra inch today—which put her at the five-nine mark, but her lack of muscle, self-confidence, and weight made her seem considerably smaller. Childlike, even.
The well-worn skinny jeans bagged over skinnier legs. Her sneakers were falling apart, and she wore what appeared to be at least three layers on her top half. Connie narrowed her eyes thoughtfully—it was a warm day, the month of May cruising into life with bright sunshine and a light breeze. Was the girl cold or trying to hide?
Caera reached up and snagged a tangled lock of greasy blonde hair in colorless fingers, pulling on it as she bit her cracked, dry bottom lip. She inched forward again, eyes watching Connie as though she might attack her at any moment.
Connie knew what trauma looked like. She was well versed in the many different ways it presented itself, and everything about this girl screamed victim. Bodie and Alicia both wore that badge of survival, although Bodie wore it with more pride than Alicia had managed to achieve yet, but this one…this one was trapped somewhere in the seventh level of hell.
It took a few minutes for Caera to make it into the room, and she jumped when Connie closed the door quietly behind her. Panicked eyes stared at the wooden barrier as though Connie had just locked her in with a ravenous bear.
“It's okay to be nervous, sweetheart. Why don't you choose a seat and make yourself comfortable while I get you something to drink?” Connie avoided touching the thin arm, certain it would be unwelcome. “I'm Doctor Monroe, but you can call me Constance or Connie. You were referred to me because your previous therapists feel you and I will make a good team to continue your treatment.”
“They dumped me on you.” It was hardly more than a whisper, and so resigned.
“Not at all. Firstly, I can accept or reject a referral if I think I'm not the best option for that particular person. After looking at your file, I beli
eve we can make an improvement in your situation.” How, Connie didn't know. There wasn't enough data to formulate any sort of plan, which meant doing some reconnaissance of her own. “Secondly, more importantly, do you believe that the therapists you've seen over the past…three years have been the right fit for your needs?”
She walked over to her desk and opened the small fridge she kept beside it, taking out two bottles of fresh OJ. The girl needed hydrating, and some sugar. With the bottles in one hand, picking up the thin file in the other, Connie moved to the other end of the room where she'd decorated the space for homeliness, comfort, and relaxation.
Two blue-grey plush armchairs and a matching couch were positioned around a low coffee table. She tossed the file down next to a notepad and pen, set the bottles on the wood, then gestured for Caera to choose a chair. Only when the girl had defrosted enough to perch on the edge of an armchair did Connie choose the one beside her, angling her body to watch her.
Twisting her fingers together, Caera shook her head. “No. They didn't like me.”
Fury built so quickly, Connie barely managed to contain it before it ripped free. Whether a doctor liked a patient or not shouldn't come into the equation. Assessment, treatment, and continued support throughout the doctor-patient relationship should be the only thing important. “Really? Well then, they're idiots, aren't they?” Connie kicked her shoes off and drew her feet up onto the chair, to the astonishment of her patient. “Why don't we forget everything that's happened in the last few years, all the drugs and doctors, and start fresh?”
Caera blinked. “Y-You're not just going to write me a prescription for more drugs and send me home?”
Assholes, Connie thought savagely. She leaned over and grabbed her notepad and pen, the file. Settling snugly back into her seat, she tossed the file over her shoulder and listened to the flutter of papers scattering over the floor. “I'm a psychologist, Caera. I don't have a degree in psychopharmacology so I can't legally prescribe medications. However, even if I could, I don't believe drugs are the way forward in treating a patient.”
For the first time, Caera relaxed enough to take the rigidness from her spine. Those nervous hands stopped twining her fingers together quite as hard. “The drugs didn't work. They gave me so many different ones, but none of them worked. And they said…they said they couldn't do any more for me, and passed me along.”
Connie made a note to contact the previous therapists for more personal notes on the case, and a chance to admonish them for being asshats. She tapped her pen on the pad. “Okay, sweetheart, that isn't going to happen here. No meds unless absolutely necessary, and I'm afraid you're going to be stuck with me for as long as it takes to achieve what you want.”
Those huge green eyes shimmered with a sheen of tears. “Sleep. I just want to sleep without the monsters.”
Oh, she understood that feeling. It had taken nearly two years for her own nightmares to stop after she'd escaped Evan's poisonous clutches. “Good, we have something to aim for. Let's go back to the basics and get some history, then we can start paddling toward the end goal.”
It took almost thirty minutes to get down the salient details—family history, a glimpse into a troubled childhood. Connie made a quick note to revisit the subject, seeing as how Caera was disinclined to expand on a great many points Connie tried to raise.
By the time they got onto the heart of the matter, Connie called for a break and opened the juice bottle the girl hadn't touched. Shoving it into small hands, she gave her an arch look and ordered in her strict Domme voice to drink. When Caera raised it to her sore mouth, Connie hurried to her desk in bare feet and put a call through to the receptionist, asking her to rearrange Connie's schedule and clear the next two hours.
When she returned to her seat, the bottle was empty. “Sorry about that, I need a bit more time to build the big picture.” She opened the second bottle and exchanged it for the empty one still in Caera's hands. “So, you have no contact with your mother or your father?”
“They don't want me in their lives unless I commit myself to an institution,” Caera mumbled, spinning the bottle in her fingers. “They think it's all in my head, that I'm crazy. I'm an inconvenience to them the way I am, and unless I'm doped up and drooling on antipsychotics, they don't want anything to do with me.”
Did the girl have no one in her life as a support system? “Yeah, pretty sure you're not crazy, sweetheart. What about friends? You have friends, right?” Connie saw everything she needed to see on the lean face, in the way those big green eyes seemed to deflate even further. Another note went on the pad to find Caera a support system. “Okay, so you're not on your own, not anymore. From now on, when you need a friend, you call me.”
In the back of her mind, she could just envision Atticus lazily swinging a tawse, lecturing her on loading yet another item onto her already stacked plate. He wouldn't be pleased with her, she thought, then frowned at herself. Since when did she care what her colleague of sorts thought about what she did in her professional capacity? This had nothing to do with him, and he wasn't her fucking boss.
“I…really?”
“Really. I'll give you my card before you leave. If you need me, you call me. At any time.” She studied the bruised eyes and gaunt face carefully, remembering what Atticus had asked her just a couple of nights before. What happens when a person becomes swamped by the rigors of life and the shit just keeps on coming? What happens when they reach a point where they can't see anything but the clusterfuck? “Caera, I'd like you to be honest with me. Have you had any suicidal urges? Any thoughts of self-harm?”
Caera's gaze dropped to the bottle. “No.”
“I'm not going to use the information against you—that's not what I'm here for. I need to know so I can take measures to ensure your safety. I don't want to lose you before we've even begun to sort this mess out.” The thought was devastating. This was such a young life swinging in the balance; Caera hadn't even started to live yet. “Honestly, have you considered suicide?”
“I don't want to go to the hospital.” The quiet voice vibrated with nerves. “The other doctors said they would have to send me for psychiatric evaluation at the hospital if…if…” She trailed off and huddled protectively into the chair.
“I don't want that for you, either,” Connie assured her gently. She wanted to reach out and stroke her, give her some semblance of physical reassurance, but they weren't at that stage yet. “Give me a straight answer, no little white lies, and we can move forward from here.”
A muscle in Caera's jaw twitched. Closing her eyes, she nodded once.
Has admitted to suicidal inclinations, Connie wrote as she mulled over her options. “All right, that's a concern. Sleep deprivation can cause a variety of problems, including depression and hallucinations. Suicidal urges in extreme cases, which I believe is what we’re dealing with here. How many hours sleep do you get a night, Caera?”
A slender shoulder lifted beneath the layers of clothing. “I don't. I don't sleep. The monsters come in the dark. Sometimes, when I'm really tired and the caffeine isn't enough, I fall asleep without meaning to, and I get a couple hours before the world goes to hell.”
“Eating habits?”
“Don't have much of an appetite. Live on coffee and energy drinks.” Another shrug.
The girl was so depressed, she couldn't even take care of her basic needs. There were some rather large red flags starting to rise, and Connie had little time to turn things around before Caera ended up in a position where medical intervention was her only option. Connie set the notepad in her lap and sighed. “I'll be blunt with you, sweetheart. Your life needs a rapid overhaul. Malnutrition, dehydration, sleep deprivation. They’re three issues out of a long list of complaints we need to deal with. We need to get you eating and drinking properly, otherwise you'll end up collapsing and being rushed to the ER. You'd likely be put on intravenous fluids, and I imagine they'd insert a nasogastric tube to feed you.”
Caera's face went dead white in an instant.
“I'd like to weigh you,” Connie told her firmly, adding a touch of Domme. “Today, before you leave. I know it's not regular practice, but unless you're willing to visit your normal doctor…” When Caera shook her head, Connie sighed. “I want you to keep a journal. Everything you eat, everything you drink, and how many hours you sleep. You'll come see me three times a week, more if you need me. I'll make room in my schedule. I'm going to talk to one of my associates who deals with sleep-related disorders and see what advice he can give me.”
“I-I…”
“Just take a breath, Caera. We can do this, between us. Calories, fluids, and rest. Did any of your other therapists try sleeping tablets? I don't recall seeing anything in your file apart from the various benzodiazepine-based meds.”
“They lock me in the terrors. The last time I tried sleeping pills, my neighbors called the police because I was screaming more than usual. They're used to my episodes, but they thought I was being murdered.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “The police smashed my door in, and it took an officer ten minutes to get me to respond. That was scary,” she admitted quietly. “Waking up with a half-dozen cops in my apartment. It's not the biggest, so there wasn't much room for everyone.”
Connie crossed sleeping tablets off her list of to-try suggestions. Her pen tapped quickly against her knee. “How about holistic remedies? Scent diffusers? I know a few psychologists who have done studies on using St. John's Wart to help manage night terrors.”
“I haven't tried that.”
Underlining it on her list, Connie smiled. “Good, we've got some positive things to aim for. When you do get a few hours, do you find you get a more restful sleep if your boyfriend or partner is beside you?”
Caera's face went from pale to a few shades below neon. Flustered, she squirmed in her seat, more animated than Connie had seen her in the last couple of hours. It was easy enough to read the signals and piece them together with the information she already had.
Talk For Me: Club Avalon Book 3 Page 7
