#y'all need to let go of gianni

[eddieangel]

I've never ever interacted with ultrakill. Why are y'all on my dash get out and let me have my pressure content in peace.

Stop bein so obsessed with a voice like seriously

[missmaywemeetagain]

Broken Glass Chapter 7 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

A/N: And we're back, babies!! ❤️‍🩹 Thank you for being so patient and also thanks to those of you who've checked out and joined my new Patreon already--y'all are the bee's knees and I'm so so grateful for your support!! (Head's up--There's a lot of great extras coming on Patreon soon related to Pink Scarf, the Scarf Universe, and other new series!💗)

If you didn't get in on the early access on Patreon, here's the next installment for Dolores and Elvis! I really wanted to show how vulnerable Lori is feeling while trying to navigate her first night at Graceland and how Elvis responds to that, especially after Chapter 6. Let's just say you are in for a big dose of hurt/comfort...🥰

As always, thank you so much my darlin's for your support on here and other platforms as I work on growing as a professional writer! I couldn't do it without you! ❤️ While I currently am posting in various places, I may be streamlining things in the future towards Patreon and (*hint hint*) my future website. 🎉 (Don't worry though--many stories will still be free!!)

TW: panic/anxiety, shame, allusions to previous sexual assault, nightmare-related violence/blood, vomit, references to previous sexual activities, lots of hurt/comfort! Mature 18+

Everything is wrong.

You watch helplessly as Elvis stands bravely before an enemy army that stretches so far into the distance that the soldiers meld together into one dark entity. He is alone, with shoulders squared and chest puffed out defiantly, but you can see that his chest is heaving too quickly.

He can’t breathe, yet he needs to fight.

You scream his name. The sound is swallowed and dies before it can reach him. That horrible army advances, and heart dropping, you break out into run. Every part of your body screams for him as you try to get to there, but it’s as if you are slogging through mud in slow motion.

“I have to help him…have to help him! SOMEBODY HELP HIM!” your mind cries helplessly.

The horde descends.

Elvis disappears as they heap on top of him. The sound of them tearing him to pieces is too much to bear.

You gasp, swallowing air that doesn’t seem to reach your lungs. Sorrow aches through you with such force you feel as though you’re going to split in two.

No, no, no, no…

Your stomach cramps as though you’ve been punched there. You double over with pain, squeezing your eyes shut as if that will make it all go away.

Everything is wrong.

When you open your eyes again, you’re back in your bedroom, in New York, but it’s as it was when you were a child, your dolls and toys and petal pink bedsheets on display. When it used to be home and not a dreary husk with four walls.

Elvis barrels through the door as though running from something, still in his green army uniform. He slams the door behind him, turning the lock.

“Thank god, you’re alive!” you gasp, but he doesn’t take notice of your words. He’s too busy searching the room for something.

“Elvis. Elvis! What are you looking for?”

“We have to go, Little Bird.” He’s struggling to breathe again, you can tell. The hope you feel from seeing him alive dissipates as your heart starts to pound with dread.

“Go? Go where? Why?” He doesn’t stop. “Elvis, you need to rest!”

“But they’re coming.” His blue eyes lock onto yours with such intensity your reply catches in your throat.

“Who? Who’s coming?” is what you try to say, but you can’t get it out before the door bursts inward, splinters of wood fracturing around you.

Gianni appears, sauntering in too casually, his eyes black and depthless as obsidian. “Oh, Bella, Bella, Bella,” he tsks venomously, his mouth spreading into a hideous grin. All his teeth are razor sharp and pointed, glistening scarlet with blood. “You’ve been a naughty little fidanzata.” He steps closer.

Horror courses through your veins. You recoil and stumble backwards and your heart begins to race incredibly fast. You try to speak, to scream, anything that might get Gianni to leave, but your panting breaths prevent anything from getting out.

“Lil’ Lo’, don’t ya worry now, it’s all gonna be okay,” Elvis says in his lilting Southern drawl, turning to you. His sparkling blue eyes make you believe him, if only just for a moment. You get caught in his stare, in his crooked, endearing smile. He grabs your hand and squeezes it comfortingly. You notice instantly that he is much too warm, fever making his eyes glassy. Concern floods you, ratcheting up your fear.

“Oh, how noble the little king is!” Gianni laughs—a vicious sound that grates on your nerves—before it dies abruptly in that hideous mouth and he continues, “But you belong to me, Bella, no matter how far you try to run. I made sure of that.” His brutal grin spreads.

“No,” you whisper, shaking violently, your terror threatening to consume you. Only Elvis’ hot hand in yours somewhat grounds you.

Gianni advances, and suddenly your father appears behind him with several other goons. The room becomes unbearably claustrophobic, the air heavy and sour.

Elvis pulls you behind him, shielding you with his long frame. You can’t help but peek around him to see Gianni and your father getting closer.

“My love, we know you are only good for one thing, and this mook,” Gianni says, pointing at Elvis, “knows it, too. He wants it, same as the rest.”

“That’s not true!” you cry out, finally finding your voice.

“Isn’t it?” Gianni purrs.

You press yourself into the blazing, sweaty heat of Elvis’ broad back, wanting to disappear, desperately wanting not to believe such a thing. Doubt creeps in when the image of him between Anita’s bare thighs, his pupils blown and laden with arousal, flashes through you. How he looked at you so intensely and his body seized, and you knew, despite your inexperience, that something wildly inappropriate had occurred. He’s included you in something—a sinful pleasure—you shouldn’t be a part of.

You want to be disgusted, appalled, afraid even, by what it might mean, and yet…

Yet it sends fiery heat coiling down low in your belly instead.

As if reading your thoughts, your father spits out, “Puttana. Donnaccia. You filthy little sullied slut.”

“Aren’t you just?” Gianni agrees silkily, as if remembering what it was like between your legs, ripping away the innocence that was not his to take.

Bile rises in your throat, and you push back from Elvis, hitting the wall behind you. Icy cold shame washes over you. Shivering uncontrollably, you want to run. You want to hide. You don’t want Elvis to see what you are. But you are frozen.

Elvis doesn’t look at you, however. Instead, he erupts into a roaring fury, running at Gianni and your father like a bull. The force of it should knock Gianni over, but like some supernatural being, he doesn’t budge.

You watch in horror as Gianni grips Elvis by the shoulder, pulls him in close, and rips his throat out with those glistening fangs.

The sound of grief that explodes from you is unrecognizable. The metallic tang of fresh blood pierces the air. You watch as Elvis’ eyes widen in shock, then roll back into his head. As he starts to slump, your father catches him, driving a knife deep into his abdomen.

“No, no, no, NO!” you scream, needing to get to Elvis, needing to save him. But you can’t move, no matter how hard you thrash and try.

“Dolores,” Elvis sputters, coughing up blood as he falls to the floor. The fact that he uses your given name sends another kind of ache punching through your chest.

Then Gianni has reached you, pressing you against the wall, his stinking breath cloying as he whispers mockingly in your ear, “Poor Bella. It’s all your fault. If only you’d stayed where you belong…”

“No, I’m sorry, please, I-I-I…it’s not—,” you hiccup, gasping for breath as Gianni’s hand closes around your throat. His other hand presses hard into your belly, moving down slowly. Nausea rolls over you.

“I’ll always be with you,” Gianni whispers into your mouth, his hand cupping the mound between your legs, “whether you like it or not.”

Choking and gasping, you wake with a start. Your eyes fly open, and your hands clutch at your neck desperately. When satisfied you aren’t being strangled, your place your hand over your thundering heart, forcing yourself to take in slower, more measured breaths.

It takes a long, panicked moment to figure out where you are and find your bearings in the dark room. Frazzled and dazed, your stomach churns, thinking you are still trapped in your old room, not laid out on a luxurious mattress with satin sheets.

Where…?

In Elvis’ bed. Next to him.

Your head turns rapidly, and it’s only when you feel the weight of him so close and hear the quiet wheezing of his breath beside you, that you realize he’s alive and not bleeding out on the floor. The relief only lasts a moment, though, as you picture Gianni’s bloody teeth and hear his words echo in your head:

“I’ll always be with you, whether you like it or not.”

Your stomach rolls violently, and throwing the covers aside, you stumble through the dark and unfamiliar space and into the ensuite bathroom. Flinging on the light, you barely make it to the toilet it time. Acidic bile burns on its way up and out, but at least it distracts you from the lingering phantom smell of blood that still permeates through you.

You purge the memory of Gianni and your father out of you, again and again. Even once your stomach is long emptied, you dry heave viciously, a part of you hoping that this will make you feel untouched again. Clean. Undamaged. Guiltless. Worthy.

“Lil’ Bird?” Elvis’ voice is gravelly with sleep, dreamy yet concerned as he stands behind you.

You sob in relief at the sound of his famous lilt, a definitive reminder that you didn’t get him killed. You would feel more mortified at the state he’s caught you in except your body keeps trying to expel your demons through your mouth, so all your energy and attention goes back to clutching the sides of the toilet.

“Oh, honey,” he drawls sleepily, dropping to his knees on the carpet next to you. His hand falls heavy and warm on your back, and you want to flinch away but another heave shakes your body.

Instead of being disgusted, Elvis gathers your hair up in his hand, his fingers brushing and catching in the long, dark strands, pulling it out of the way of your sick.

It’s unclear whether it is this kindness, your embarrassment, or your sickness that has tears streaming down your cheeks. Your weakness feels untenable—it’s you who should be taking care of him, not the other way around—but here you are, vulnerable as can be with Elvis cooing quietly into your ear.

You aren’t sure how long you sit there, huddled over the toilet, your dry heaving eventually turning into wracking sobs. Everything from the past week seems to hit you all at once. Your entire life has been upended in a multitude of ways and your valiant effort to keep it stoically inside has been ripped apart.

“Come’ere darlin’,” Elvis says gently, pulling your shivering form into his warm embrace.

You stiffen at the contact, your mind flooding on how it’s not right because he’s your patient and he should be relying on you to take care of him instead of whatever this is. You must be murmuring it aloud, however, because then he’s answering back:

“Hush, lil’ girl, lemme take care of ya.”

Elvis moves, sitting with his back against the vanity cabinets now, drawing you up and into his lap. Boneless, you let him, any semblance of fight drained out of you and flushed down the toilet.

Tired.

You are so, so tired of being strong and stoic, of pretending not to be terrified, of blaming yourself for everything that has happened to bring you to this moment. And here you are, in the most unlikely of places, being lulled into submission by a man you hardly know, yet somehow know better than any other man in your life. Inconceivably, you feel safe in this strange embrace, and perhaps that is why you can’t stop the hiccupping sobs escaping you or the tears pouring down your cheeks. The unfairness and cruelty in your world threaten to break you apart.

But you are safe, at least for the moment, in the arms of the most famous man on the planet, who seems nothing but kind and generous and gentle.

He doesn’t have to be. He shouldn’t be—I don’t deserve it—yet he is.

You bury your head into his shoulder, the satiny silk of his pajama top clutched fiercely in your hand as if it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality, an anchor keeping you moored in the churning ocean of your mind, of your past. You cling harder as images of your father’s violence and Gianni’s assault crash over you, threatening to drown you.

The more you cry, the tighter Elvis seems to hold you. You vaguely register that his gentle words have turned into a low, crooning lullaby, the reverberations in his chest pacifying your trembling form.

It’s so beautiful and lilting, a light and soothing sound meant for picturesque moments. Has his voice always been this lovely? Or had it changed and matured in his time across the ocean? Regardless, it pulls your focus away from your fears, and you finally begin to relax. Though by the exhaustion you feel coupled with a strange sense of calm, you wonder if it is numbness that you are succumbing to.

Elvis stops abruptly, jolting you out of your stupor. This sudden change of focus has his hand trailing feather-light over the bare skin of your thigh. You hadn’t realized the hem of your nightgown had creeped up towards your hips. Your heart begins to thump against your ribcage at the contact, not understanding why he’s touching you so intimately. Panic edges its way back in, held at bay by the kindness he’s showed you up until now.

Before embarrassment and your instinct to cover yourself in modesty even has a chance to settle, your eyes follow his up your legs.

His whole body goes taut. “Who did this to you?” he asks, voice lower than you’ve heard it before. He says it in such a measured, eerily calm manner that you immediately know the tone is only for your benefit and not because he’s feeling in any way calm.

The kerthunk of your heart sinking into your stomach makes it obvious what he’s asking without you having to look, but you do anyway, even though you’ve spent the last week avoiding looking at all costs.

Your thighs resemble a macabre rainbow, the purplish-blue giving way to a mottled yellow-green. You fumble for a reasonable excuse—lord knows you’ve become skilled at them over the years—but these bruises were different. Gianni had not been gentle with you, as evidenced by his greedy handprints leaving horrific reminders deep into your flesh, too far up your thighs to be proper.

If your stomach wasn’t already empty, you think you might have vomited again, right there in Elvis’ lap, but as it stands, you manage to swallow the lingering bile back down your throat. But you cannot get the words out to make him understand, so you settle for shaking your head vigorously, as if to say, I swear this wasn’t my fault. I’m not that kind of girl. My innocence is intact. This isn’t your problem.

But the look in Elvis’ deep eyes is not one of judgement or disappointment—instead, they burn with unfettered protectiveness, something you have never experienced from anyone other than your mother.

“Dolores, who did this to you?” The question is insistent and firm this time. The use of your full name and not one of his endearments makes it clear how serious he is.

Shame blooms across your cheeks and you give into the urge to bury your head back into his shoulder, trying to hide away and pretend this isn’t happening. No one was ever supposed to know. You feel yourself wanting to slip far away. Unfortunately for you, Elvis counters your move, lifting your chin with his index finger so you cannot escape his question.

The violent remnants of your nightmare make it clear that you can’t tell Elvis about Gianni or your father. They are much too dangerous. You stomach turns again at the thought of Elvis getting hurt because of you. You’ve already, unbeknownst to him, put him at risk. But you must tell him something, anything to stop the intense emotions churning in his eyes. His gaze threatens to swallow you whole.

“A very dangerous man,” you rasp out, finally acquiescing something. Your eyes settle in your lap—anywhere but looking into the pools of his eyes.

He is quiet, and you can feel the weight of his stare examining your body in search of answers, taking in the pieces of you—the scars, the bruises—that you are so used to hiding under your clothes and resigned exterior. You can’t help but squirm under the scrutiny but have no energy to climb out of his embrace to hide your shame away. It’s too late for that anyway, and you are so very tired.

After taking you in fully, you feel the press in the air of all the questions he wants to ask but doesn’t. Instead, he purses those full lips of his together in a line and nods solemnly, making some decision you are not privy to.

“Is he why you wanted to leave New York so fast? Why you said yes to this?” he asks quietly.

You close your eyes, and for the first time in your life, you yearn to unload your burden. It’s as though you are just realizing how utterly exhausting it’s been keeping everything locked up tight, building and keeping the walls around yourself secure. And none of it makes sense, this fact that it is Elvis knocking a hole straight through to the truth.

Your lip trembles. “Mmm hmm…” you manage before pausing, “b-but he’s n-not the o-only man I n-needed t-to get away from.” The chattering of your teeth has your admission stuttered and fumbling, but the crushing weight that has been on your shoulders lifts slightly with what little you’ve given him.

Elvis’ hands clench and release your nightgown, his jaw ticking as if he is holding himself back from an eruption of emotion. You are completely baffled by how concerned and protective he appears. This man who you barely know. This man who is in your care, not the other way around.

The rumbling growl which comes out of him is so low you might not have registered it except that by being so close to him, it reverberates through you.

“Nobody’s gonna touch you like that ever again. You hear me, Little Bird?” he says firmly, cupping your cheek to make you look at him and see how genuine he is. “Not while I’m around.”

This time when your heart plummets, it’s not out of fear. No, it’s more like the drop of a roller coaster on Coney Island or one of the elevators in the Empire State Building: a momentary loss of control followed by giddy excitement. It is joined by a wash of warmth over your chilled skin, and you are suddenly hyperaware of every single place his furnace of a body touches your own. The rolling of your stomach settles, your trembling beginning to ebb. The logic you so pride yourself on has been totally circumvented by your basest needs to be held, nurtured, and cared for, for once.

It's selfish. But your disorientation and Elvis’ ability to disarm you has you relishing in his warmth, his gentleness. You don’t flinch from his touch. Curling into him, a quiet sob escapes your lips at the feeling of being protected for the first time in a very long time.

Elvis wraps his arms around you carefully, as though knowing the fragility of your soul. Eventually, you relax, your exhaustion taking over fully, and your vision blurs and dims.

*

The first thing you register is how warm and cozy you are. It’s so very different from the cold you usually experience when waking up. You are cocooned so pleasantly and snuggle into the feeling, wondering if perhaps you are dreaming. How else would you feel like this, as alone as you are?

It’s not until that warm cocoon shifts and sighs around you that your eyes pop open. Your heart skips a beat.

Oh, God, where am I?

Panicked disorientation cuts through the comfort you’d been enveloped in, sharpening your focus, and it only takes a moment for you to remember you are at Graceland. With Elvis Presley. In his bedroom.

You blink the gritty sand of sleep from your eyes as a flash of memory comes from the night before: Elvis, between Anita’s legs. Their argument. His roaring tantrum and its aftermath.

Swallowing, you are quickly reminded by the sting that the night didn’t end there. You shiver at the thought of your horrible nightmare and the subsequent retching in the bathroom. Then Elvis found you, gotten on the floor with you, and held you…

Oh, Madone…I’m in his bed.

But it’s when you register that your comforting cocoon is Elvis holding you under the covers, that you are curled into his side, that shock and embarrassment washes over you.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

The surprising thing is that fear is perhaps the one thing you are not feeling. What if I went far away like I do sometimes and didn’t remember him taking advantage of me? But taking stock of yourself, you are sure he hasn’t done anything to harm you. No, he feels so different…like safety. His gentleness from the middle of the night floods back to you, causing an ache in your heart you do not entirely understand.

The rise and fall of his breath is evident to you now by how his ribs expand against your curled up hands. It’s almost hypnotic coupled with the sound of his breathing. But that seems a little labored, and his body is an oven, reminding you of his fever last night.

This situation is beyond improper, your logical mind butts in, knowing you should get out of this compromising situation as quickly as possible, preferably before he wakes. But another part of you relishes in it and wants to lie here in his protective embrace for as long as possible. You take a deep breath, committing this feeling to memory, even though you know you shouldn’t.

As your head clears, the panic from last night dissipating, you realize you cannot let this go any further, as innocent as it may seem now. You need to move.

He is your patient, Lori. Get a grip.

Well, and my boyfriend in public, technically.

You roll your eyes at yourself, resisting the urge to tear yourself from his grasp and leap out of the bed as though he is on fire. No, you don’t want to wake him, to be a burden on him, you think as shame slithers back into your thoughts. The things he knows about you now, those things he guessed and you confirmed…oh, lord, what he must think of you. How he must pity you.

That bite of shame is what finally has you extricating yourself as slowly as possible, rolling and sliding your way out of his arms. You think this one thing has gone right when you manage to swing upright at the edge of the bed, but the moment you start to rise, feet sliding towards the floor, a warm hand catches your wrist, startling you.

“Where ya goin’, lil’ Bird?” Elvis croaks, voice heavy with sleep, eyes barely open to slits. “You okay?”

Your heart flutters. “I-I’m fine,” you whisper quietly, the humiliation and intimacy of last night hot in your veins. “You can go back to sleep.”

His dazed eyes drift closed and you think maybe you’ve gotten away with it, but then they pop open like he’s startled himself awake. Head shaking once, twice, he mumbles, “Mmm, can’t. Not without you…”

You freeze, the fluttering of your heart cascading down into your stomach.

He’s half asleep. He doesn’t realize what he’s saying.

Rapidly, the events from last night rush back to you. It’s as if you both crossed over some precipice of trust when you each saw the other in your worst moments.

Oh, he knows so much about you now that you never, ever planned to tell him.

In your state last night, you didn’t consider the repercussions of this new trust and familiarity. You’ve never felt intimate with a man emotionally and certainly not physically. You’d never had the occasion or confidence to do so.

For Elvis to want you to come to bed so he can sleep soundly feels profoundly personal, and yet, from what you felt moments ago wrapped in his arms, you think you might understand it just a little bit. And that flusters you in a way you’ve never felt before.

“I have to use the bathroom,” you eek out. A non-committal answer.

“Okay, baby…jus’ come right back,” he murmurs, blinking his glassy eyes slowly.

You scurry off, thinking about how him doubling down about it means it’s not a fluke that he wants you near him. A strange little shiver rolls through you as you take care of your business, a little disturbed and distracted by this illogical pull you feel towards him.

I shouldn’t feel this way, but…

But maybe you can use it to your advantage. Maybe he will listen to you now if he trusts you and feels connected to you. Perhaps this is the best way you can help him, even if it is unconventional.

And manipulative.

You try not to think about that or how it makes you feel when he looks at you a certain way. The truth of the matter is, if you focus on him, you can’t think too hard on yourself.

Steeling yourself in the mirror gives you pause. You look terrible—gaunt with little red freckles littering your cheeks and jaw from all the broken blood vessels caused by heaving your guts out last night. Your deep-set eyes are even darker than usual, almost as though you have two black eyes to match the horrible, mottled bruises on your thighs. The sight makes you shudder.

Well, even if Elvis found you attractive in the first place (and that’s a big if), your current state is sure to change his mind and eliminate any awkwardness in that regard. In fact, looking as terrible as you do will probably help the situation. Maybe he’ll follow your directions out of pity.

Sighing audibly, you steady yourself and head back into the freezing, darkened bedroom. A part of you hopes that maybe he’s fallen back asleep so you can avoid any awkwardness.

“What took ya so long? Sure you’re okay?” he probes sleepily, but it seems to come from a place of concern. Flipping on the lamp on the nightstand, he furrows his brow and lifts his head up as if to inspect you. This continued protectiveness takes you aback.

“Yes, I’m alright, I promise.” The truth is you are far from alright but have no energy to untangle that now. Instead, you turn the question back to him: “How are you feeling? How’s your breathing?” You sit on the edge of the bed, using your wrist to feel his clammy forehead.

Elvis pulls on your other arm, gently, but enough to cause you to topple over next to him as he moves you where he wants you. When you stiffen, he seems to realize he’s overstepped and takes his hands off you.

“I-I-I’m sorry, honey. I-I din’t mean ta—I just thought—” he stutters, “but w-we both just seem ta feel better together…”

A little voice in the back of your head reminds you his comfort felt awfully nice last night when you fell apart. Forcing yourself to breathe evenly, you consider his words—there is truth to them and you know it—and you wonder again if this is how you get him to do what you ask more often.

Trying not to freeze, you settle on a bit of honesty. “I know, b-but this is new for me, Elvis. I’m not used to…, and…and…” you trail off, finding it hard to get the words out now that you need to say them aloud. Propriety and shame have you flailing in the strangeness of the situation.

He scoots over, pulling you gently down to face him, like two girls sharing secrets at a sleepover. “Of course, honey. I-I w-wasn’t thinkin’,” he says as if reading your mind, “Is this okay?”

You nod. There is such a disarming way about him that even in your apprehension at his closeness, you begin to relax. He curls his warm hands up around your icy cold ones. It soothes you more than you anticipate.

“How are you feeling, really?” you ask softly. Your current physical closeness has your words coming out more familiar and informal than you’ve been with him before. You figure after the events of last night, you can let go of some of the harsh professionalism that had been trained into you the past four and a half years.

Elvis shrugs, seemingly nonchalant, which is telling. “I’m tired,” he concedes, quickly adding, “You must be tired, too, after…being sick.” He seems to choose the words carefully.

It’s a sort of bargaining chip, you realize—his attempt at an “If I have to rest, so do you.” It’s a bit flipped from the ultimatum you’d given him on the train, and may be a dangerous precedent to set, but this is the closest you’ve gotten him to rest by his own volition since you met him.

The thing is you are bone tired after a week of trauma and rapid adjustment to a completely new and hectic way of life. And as much as he drove you crazy at first with what you had assumed was arrogance and entitlement, he has now, inexplicably, become someone you might confide in.

But your stubborn nature and need for self-protection balks at this. Your shame makes you want to hide away from him. Yet you are beginning to understand that Elvis, while surrounded by people, lives a very lonely, isolated existence and seems to yearn for connection.

Maybe we aren’t so different, he and I.

“I am rather exhausted,” you finally relent, knowing if you lie he will see through it, through you, in that strange way of his. You don’t want to jeopardize your progress with him.

His eyes are darker than usual, looking at you with what you can only explain as tenderness. “Ya need to rest, honey. I-I-I know I been runnin’ ya ragged.”

“I can only rest if you do,” you point out.

He nods. His head is so close to yours that the action nearly causes his head to bump into yours. Apparently unable to resist the urge to touch and fawn, he brushes a lock of your haphazard hair back behind your ear.

“Okay, lil’ Lo, I’ll rest.”

It is music to your ears.

“That means staying in bed actually resting, not ‘resting’ while working or at a party,” you warn playfully because you’ve learned he responds better to this type of request.

“Well, what if I need ta use the bathroom?” he jokes.

“Hmmm…I suppose I’ll allow it,” you say, managing a small, almost flirtatious smile.

Oh, Madone, who am I becoming?

“I need to take your vitals and give you your medicine,” you add quickly before he can respond, forcing yourself to be logical and practical rather than borderline swooning.

It’s then that your stomach growls so loudly it’s impossible to deny.

“Lord, woman, we better get some food in ya!” he laughs, rolling over and grabbing the receiver on the nightstand.

When he shifts, you shiver, yearning for his body heat again. It’s just because he keeps the room frigid, you tell yourself. He orders food to be brought up, but doesn’t ask you what you want, which bothers you a little, though you suppose he’s used to doing things his way, especially in his own home.

You use the distraction to get up and retrieve your medical bag. You know between the insane travel, the publicity schedule, his romp with Anita, and then his massive outburst that he must be running on empty. It worries you how he runs himself into the ground, and you know you need to find a better way than this quid pro quo to make sure he’s resting regularly and taking breaks.

If you don’t, this job will be much more difficult than you anticipated. You worry his condition will worsen rapidly at this rate. A heaviness settles on your heart at the thought.

It doesn’t make you feel any better when his vitals show he hasn’t improved much from last night. His blood pressure is a little better since he’s not worked up, but it’s not where it should be, and his temperature is only down a degree. No wonder he’s so warm.

Looking at him closely, you see that his eyes are rimmed black like yours and glassy, his fatigue showing through his moments of playfulness and concern for you.

“You know, you don’t have to pretend with me, Elvis.” It slips out quietly before you can think better of it, your eyes flitting down to meet his briefly.

The tired haze in his eyes clears and he blinks, as if trying to comprehend what you are saying.

“What I mean is I know you have to pretend you are alright with almost everyone else in your life. It must be very tiring.” Yet another similarity between you. “But you don’t have to do it with me.”

“I…” he pauses, looking down, not sure how to process that information. It’s like he never considered that he could drop the façade. That realization makes your heart ache for him.

Something significant shifts within you. Elvis knows more about you now than anyone you’ve known your whole life. And you know the world’s most famous singer’s biggest secret. Both of you are going to have to accept it and learn to trust one another, as out of character as it may be for you to do so.

Boldly, you take a move from his book, grabbing his chiseled chin and pulling it up to make him look at you. His eyes widen in surprise and compliance.

“Elvis, I am here for you and you only. You don’t owe me any sort of excuses about how you are doing in order to make me feel better. But you do owe me honesty about how you are truly feeling so I can help you. And that means doing what I tell you to do in terms of your health,” you say in a steady, firm voice.

The sudden pliable submissiveness in his heavy-lidded eyes surprises you somewhat. You expected more of a fight. He blinks slowly, and the intensity of his open and needy gaze sends a bolt of electricity through you.

“Right now you need to eat, take your medicine, and get back into bed to rest. Understand?” you continue. It’s not unkind, but there is a slight edge to your voice that indicates you mean it.

“Yes, ma’am,” Elvis responds sincerely and quietly, nodding.

You release his chin but keep your eyes fixed to his, your heart pounding for reasons you don’t want to consider. Something unspoken passes between you, creating a molten heat deep in your belly. There is an element of control you seem have over him in these private moments that you don’t quite understand yet. It makes you feel safe and grounded…and powerful.

It also makes you want to scoop him up in your arms and comfort him as he did with you the night before.

You know you’re in trouble because your normal boundaries that keep people at a distance have been skirted expertly by him. But it’s a give and take. The more you open up to him, the more willing he is to listen to you and do what you ask.

If you want to save his life, and in turn your own, you’ll need to do whatever it takes to keep Elvis well and happy. And if that means you have got to let him in a little, so be it, you decide, because your safety relies on him now. You have no other plan if this goes south.

It’s all rather terrifying.

Breakfast comes with a knock on the door, interrupting the moment. Ravenous, you see that everything you could possibly want is brought in and placed on a side table near the door. Your eyes widen. It’s enough to feed the whole house.

“I-I didn’t know what you wanted, so I just had Alberta make a bit of everythin’,” he says sheepishly.

“Oh. Well, thank you, that’s very kind of you,” you say, unable to take your eyes off the spread. Your mouth waters at the sweet smell of maple syrup and perfectly golden pancakes, and you can’t help but be a little shocked by the mountain of burnt-to-a-crisp bacon that sits next to it.

He gives you a boyish smile, stands, and hands you a plate, which you gladly take and gingerly fill with food.

Settling back on the bed, both of you eat quietly and for the first time, it is not uncomfortable. Maybe it’s the informal setting without the entourage that does it. Perhaps it is the mutual fatigue, hunger, or the newfound trust between you two. For whatever reason, it takes a little more weight off your shoulders.

Finishing up, you move to get up and place your plate on the tray by the door, but Elvis’ hand catches your wrist and pulls you back.

“Wait. You have a little syrup…” he starts, pointing to the corner where his lips meet.

“Oh, thank you,” you say, a flush bourgeoning across your chest. You swipe the corner of your mouth with your napkin, then look at him expectantly.

“Mmm…no,” he says, eyes glimmering in the dim light, ��Here.”

His tongue licks a stripe up the pad of his thumb. Before you can think fast enough to move away, he leans in and his dampened thumb wipes slowly over the sticky crease, removing the syrup from the corner of your mouth.

Frozen, your heart throbs so hard in your chest, you are afraid he might hear it, but he is too busy bringing his thumb back to his mouth and sucking it clean of the sweetness that moments ago graced your lips.

Oh, Madone.

The fever does not quell the unabashedly open look he gives you. How a man can all at once look as innocent as a lamb while at the same time exuding such raw sexuality, you’ll never know. It’s not as if he’s meaning to make a pass, yet a swell of tension rolls between you all the same. You force yourself to breathe, to blink, to do anything that will break the spell he seems to have on you.

Blood blooms like fire across your cheeks. You stand quickly and busy yourself as though nothing has happened, taking both plates away, silently ordering your heart to settle.

He is your patient, Lori.

You are grateful for being able to turn away as you prepare his medicines, combinations of vitamins and antibiotics that need a full stomach. It allows time for your face to cool and your body to become your own again. When you turn back to him, he sits at the edge of the bed, waiting for you. The sleepy look on his face has returned, those bedroom eyes low, docile, and submissive. He looks far away, you think, as if caught in deep thought.

You step in front of him. Boldly, before you can think better of it, you use one finger to tilt up his chin to look at you. He blinks up at you dreamily while one hand absently plays with the hem of your nightgown. It’s intimate and endearing.

“Time for your medicine, Elvis,” you say, pouring the pills into one of his hands. You watch as he throws them into his mouth, then you hand him a glass of water to swallow them down.

In a moment of déjà vu, you realize you are lightyears away from the annoyance you felt for him back in the hospital, doing nearly the same thing. It’s strange. It hasn’t been that long, but time has a funny way of warping in Elvis Presley’s world. Despite your efforts to keep him at arm’s length, he’s managed to worm his way past your defenses. It’ll take some doing for you to keep him well and following the doctor’s orders, but you think this newfound closeness will help your efforts.

As long as I keep my wits about me.

When you both lay down to go back to sleep, the terror that gripped you back in New York and slashed through your dreams in the night feels far away. As you get comfortable on your side of the bed, Elvis intertwines his long fingers in yours. Your normal impulse to pull away doesn’t interfere. No, he is dutifully respecting your space, so you give him this concession. You can’t tell if it’s him needing the assurance of your presence, or him assuring you of his.

Maybe it’s both.

Either way, as the haze of sleep finds you again, a fleeting thought drifts in your mind:

I’ve never been safer than I am right now.

The thought floats away again before you have time to think on it. The comforting weight of Elvis’ hand grounds you to him and sleep consumes you once again.

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