Hurt No More

“Look at all that blood. Are you trying to give Harry a heart attack?”

Evelyn’s voice drifted in from the hallway.

Harry held a cold towel firmly against the back of my neck, letting out a heavy sigh.

“Jane, Evelyn was only trying to help you. There’s no need to hurt yourself just spite her.”

His voice was gentle as usual.

Looking into the bathroom mirror at the dried, dark crimson streaks trailing down my jawline and collarbone, I calmly pushed his hand away.

“I’m not trying so spite anyone.”

Harry frowned slightly, pulling a damp wipe from the packet to dab at the blood on my neck.

“Evelyn told me about swapping your pills. She just wanted to test your body’s natural reflexes.

“If I’m ever not at home and you accidentally take the wrong thing, are you really gonna wait till you’re almost bled out before noticing?”

His movements were gentle, his eyes brimming with tender concern.

I lowered my eyes, my gaze landing on the old burn scar resting on his wrist—the mark he had earned years ago when testing hot bathwater on my behalf.

Back then, he had looked me in the eye and said:

“Jane, as long as I’m here, you’ll never suffer a single scratch.”

I averted my eyes, pulling the collar of my pajamas up to cover my neck.

“I get it.”

Satisfied with my submissive response, Harry reached out and gently ruffled my hair.

“That’s my girl. Come on, time for breakfast.”

In the dining room, Evelyn was wearing my apron as she set down two steaming bowls of soup.

She slid one of the bowls toward Harry, offering him a sweet, beaming smile.

“Come on, try it!”

She turned toward me, her eyes bright.

“Jane, why don’t you serve yourself? Harry mentioned you used to stay completely out of the kitchen, but that won’t do.

“You need more exposure to heat sources to stimulate your nerve endings.”

Harry pulled out a chair and sat down without saying a word to stop her.

He was waiting for me to complete this exposure training.

I walked over, reaching for the silicone oven mitts on the counter.

Evelyn suddenly reached out, sweeping the mitts onto the floor with a casual flick of hand.

“Gloves would ruin the effect.”

I gave her a quiet look. She blinked back at me, her face a portrait of total innocence.

Without saying a word, I reached out and gripped the steaming bowl with my bare hands.

The sharp smell of scorching skin filled the air, but I felt no pain at all.

As I lifted the bowl, Evelyn let out a sudden, startled gasp, taking a quick step backward and slamming into my elbow.

The boiling soup sloshed over the rim, spilling across the back of my hand.

A massive swath of raw redness flared up immediately, thick blisters swelling rapidly before my eyes.

Harry jumped from his seat, striding over quickly.

I thought he was coming to check my hand, but he brushed right past me and grabbed Evelyn by the arms.

“Where did it burn you?”

Evelyn’s eyes turned red, and she pointed down at a tiny drop of soup on her foot.

“I was quick to dodge. Only a drop landed on me.”

Harry’s brows furrowed with concern as he pulled her over to a chair.

“I’ll make an ice pack. You don’t wanna have a scar there.”

He turned and headed for the freezer to get ice, without casting a single glance in my direction.

I set the bowl down on the table.

The blisters across the back of my hand had merged into one continuous sheet, peeling open in several places, oozing yellow fluid.

I pulled two paper towels from the holder and wiped away the liquid.

Harry walked back carrying the ice pack, crouching down in front of Evelyn to carefully press it against her foot.

Evelyn looked up at me, the corners of her lips curling into a smile.

“Jane, does your hand not hurt?”

Only then did Harry look up. Upon seeing the gruesome mess on my hand, his face paled slightly.

He stood up, his tone laced with blame.

“Jane, you got burned so badly—why didn’t you drop the bowl?”

I tossed the bloody, fluid-soaked paper towels into the bin.

“Weren’t you the one wanting me to learn to sense danger on my own?”

Harry froze in place, his mouth opening as if he wanted to say something.

I ignored him entirely, turning back into the bedroom and pulling open my nightstand drawer.

The medical report I had picked up yesterday lay quietly inside.

The diagnosis read: “Severe gastric ulcer with perforation. Immediate partial gastrectomy recommended.”