Todos los capítulos de Saved by Brother's Best Friend: Capítulo 31 - Capítulo 40

Marianna.Oh, fuck me sideways with a rusty fork.That's the first coherent thought that blasts through my brain as I spin around on that goddamn barstool, nearly toppling off like a drunk toddler at a carnival ride. There he is, Duane Richter, in all his brooding, black-clad glory, leaning against the wall.How long has he been standing there? Long enough to hear me wax poetic about Ollie's V-taper?"I thought you were in Europe," I blurt out, my voice coming out high and squeaky, like I've inhaled helium from a clown's balloon. Brilliant. Way to sound composed."Clearly." His gaze flicks to the phone—where Jill's traitorous face has just vanished—then back to me.The sarcasm drips from his words like honey from a beehive, sticky and stinging. My face is on fire."That was clinical," I stammer, scrambling for dignity like it's loose change under the couch cushions. "A clinical assessment.""Mm." That sound again. That infuriating non-word that means everything and nothing. He's still

Marianna."Marianna." His voice is quiet now. Just for me. "Do you have a few minutes?""Of course." I look up at him. "What's up?""I was talking to Dr. Lindholm about your work with the F1 clients." He glances around the room, which is slowly emptying as people head to lunch. "She mentioned you've been doing some advanced posterior chain work. Shoulder rehabilitation. I'd love to hear more about your approach.""Oh." I blink. "Sure. I mean, I'm still learning, obviously, but—""Walk with me." He gestures toward the door. "I want to show you something in the treatment wing. A technique I didn't have time to cover in the session. I think you'd appreciate it.""Yeah," I say, shoving my notebook into my bag. "Absolutely. Thank you."We walk through the hallways together. He asks me questions about my education, my clinical experience, my goals. I tell him about Eastside Physical Therapy—leaving out the part where I got fired—and about treating Oliver Hale, and about my hopes of eventual

Marianna*This is what you want*, a voice whispers.No, I don't want this. I don't want—I'm trapped in this frozen flesh-prison and someone else is driving.I try to wake up. Try to force my eyes open, my limbs to move, my mouth to form the word *stop*. For one fraction of a second, I think I succeed—I see the ceiling, grey and familiar, Duane's guest room ceiling that I've memorized from all those nights of not-sleeping.But I can't move. My body is lead. My arms are pinned. My legs won't respond no matter how hard I scream inside my own skull.The hands keep moving.I'm trapped in my own body, watching from somewhere above as it responds to things it shouldn't respond to, drowning in sensation that I never asked for and can't escape.I wake up gasping.The sheets are soaked with sweat. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in the places where dream-hands were touching me seconds ago.It takes me a full minute to remember where I am. Duane's apar

Marianna.Insomnia, I've decided, is God's way of saying "fuck you specifically."I'm lying in Duane Richter's guest bed, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to questions I'm too tired to ask. The city lights filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting shadows that move and shift like living things.My body is exhausted. Like, bone-deep, cellular-level exhausted. The kind of tired where your eyelids feel like they're made of lead and your limbs might as well be sandbags.But my brain? Oh, my brain is throwing a fucking rave.I roll over. Face the window. Count the lights on the buildings across the way. One. Two. Three. Seventeen. Forty-two. It doesn't help.I try counting backwards from one hundred. Deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth.It doesn't work. I flip onto my back again. The ceiling is still grey. My phone says it's 2:40 AM.I've been lying here for four hours and thirty-three minutes.This is fine. Everything is fine. I'm fine.I cl

Marianna.His gaze moves past me. Locks onto something across the room.I turn.Dr. Kevin Hartley is standing near the water feature, talking to someone from the clinical team.Duane moves.Not fast. He doesn't run. Doesn't charge across the marble floors like some kind of action hero. He just... walks.Dr. Hartley looks up. Sees Duane approaching. His smile doesn't falter—if anything, it gets warmer. Professional. The expression of someone greeting a high-profile client."Mr. Richter!" He extends his hand. "Right on time. I was just—"Duane grabs him by the collar.Not the extended hand. The collar. His fist closes around the fabric of Dr. Hartley's expensive polo and he just... lifts. Slightly. Enough that Dr. Hartley's feet are barely touching the ground. Enough that everyone in the lobby can see exactly what's happening but nobody seems to process it."We need to talk," Duane says. His voice is conversational. Calm. The voice you'd use to discuss weather or traffic or any other mu