The discharge papers sit in my lap as Melissa wheels me toward the hospital exit, my black wheelchair squeaking slightly against the polished linoleum. Both my legs extend in front of me, wrapped in white casts that look like they belong on a mummy, not a person. My wrists rest awkwardly in their own braces, making me feel more like a broken doll than a man.
Ivy stands near the automatic doors, her purple eyes blazing as she faces the woman she flew in overnight. The medical professional stands ramrod straight, her practical athletic build and close-cropped auburn hair giving her an air of no-nonsense competence that apparently means nothing in the face of Ivy's fury.
"If you so much as try to touch Nick for a reason unrelated to his health," Ivy says, her voice carrying that dangerous quiet that makes my stomach flip, "I will kill you. That's not a threat. That's a promise."
The woman simply nods once. Her eyes remain steady, unflinching under Ivy's intensity. I'm impressed by her composure; most people wilt under that particular glare.
Ivy's gaze shifts to Cecilia, who's been standing guard by the wall like a well-dressed sentinel. "She's going to keep her eyes on you at all times," Ivy announces, jerking her thumb toward Cecilia.
Cecilia straightens slightly. The implication is clear. This new medical professional will be under constant surveillance.
Then Ivy's attention swings to Melissa, who's still gripping the handles of my wheelchair. "And you, get the fuck away from him. I'm going to push him when I'm around."
Melissa's laugh rings out across the hospital lobby, bright and genuinely amused. She steps back, raising her hands in mock surrender. "Your wife is so possessive, Nick."
I can't help the smile that spreads across my face as I tilt my head back to look up at Ivy. "Isn't it lovely?"
The medical professional approaches me, her worn leather bag hanging from her shoulder. Up close, I notice the fading stickers on it, remnants of what looks like years of travel. She offers me a professional smile.
"I'm Maren. Your wife hired me to keep you healthy and run your rehab while we travel."
"It's nice to meet you, Maren," I reply, trying to sound welcoming despite the awkwardness of the moment.
"Nope!" Ivy's voice cuts through the pleasantries like a knife. She materializes beside my chair, her hand possessively gripping the handle. "Don't get buddy-buddy with her, Nick!"
Melissa steps forward, bouncing slightly on her toes with that infectious energy she's been radiating since her win. "I can't believe I get to travel with Ivy freaking Hunt for the rest of the season!"
The enthusiasm in her voice makes me smile. I glance up at her. "You're not bummed you're going to miss the Formula E season you started?"
Melissa laughs, the sound echoing through the hospital lobby. "Once I flew to Cambridge and signed up with Zenith, I had to call the Andretti team." Her grin widens. "They got so mad at me for not taking the Cadillac deal they fired me over the phone."
"You're better off," Ivy says, her hand still firmly gripping my wheelchair handle. "Plus, the more hands I have for your brother while we travel, the better."
"A well-earned vacation," Melissa declares.
Ivy's head whips toward her, eyes narrowing into that dangerous stare I know all too well. My sister's smile falters slightly under the intensity of it. After a beat, Ivy shakes her head, exhaling sharply through her nose.
"Alright, come on," Ivy announces, already turning my wheelchair toward the exit. "I chartered a private jet. Zenith needed theirs back."
The leather seat cradles my broken body like I'm made of glass, which honestly isn't far from the truth right now.
Ivy sits beside me in the private jet, her attention split between her phone and my body in a way that makes my skin tingle despite the medication. Her free hand trails along my shoulder, down my arm, across my chest, mapping every inch of me that isn't wrapped in plaster.
"Barcelona weather looks perfect for racing," she murmurs, scrolling through what I assume are track reports or team updates. Her fingers drift lower, skimming across my stomach.
I shift slightly in my seat, trying not to wince at the dull ache in my legs. Across from us, Maren sits reviewing medical charts, her eyes occasionally flicking up to monitor me. Melissa's passed out in one of the rear seats, exhausted from the whirlwind of winning the Indy 500, flying to England, and then returning to Indiana within a few days.
Ivy's hand moves to my thigh, carefully avoiding the cast but close enough that heat radiates from her palm. The casual intimacy of it, combined with days of abstinence, makes my body respond in ways that feel almost embarrassing given my current state.
I glance over at Maren, who's still absorbed in her paperwork.
"Maren, am I allowed to fuck my wife like this?"
The question hangs in the cabin air. Maren's eyes snap up from her charts, widening slightly before her professional mask slides back into place. Ivy's hand stills on my thigh, and I can feel her attention shift completely to me, her phone forgotten.
"Uhhh, well..." Maren's clinical composure cracks for just a moment as she processes what I've asked. She sets down her charts, her jaw working as she considers the question from a medical standpoint. "That's... it's not advised. Your legs are still healing, and any excessive movement could…"
"She needs my cum to win though," I interrupt, completely serious.
"Wait, what?" Melissa's groggy voice cuts through the tension. I turn my head to see her pushing herself upright in the rear seat, blinking sleep from her eyes with obvious confusion written across her face.
Ivy's fingers tighten slightly on my thigh, and when I look at her, that predatory smile spreads across her lips. She leans forward, addressing Maren with the kind of focus she usually reserves for race strategy.
"It doesn't have to be rough sex, Maren. Just some..." Her hand moves in a small, deliberate circle on my leg. "You know. Light lovemaking."
Maren's professional composure fractures completely. Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again as she struggles to form words. Her hazel eyes dart between Ivy, me, and her medical charts like they might contain guidance for this exact scenario.
"I... that's..." Maren finally manages, her clinical tone wavering. "The issue isn't the intensity. Any activity that involves hip flexion or puts pressure on the lower extremities could compromise the healing process."
"So missionary is out," Ivy says, completely matter-of-fact, like we're discussing dinner options instead of my broken body's capacity for sex.
Melissa groans from the back. "Are you people seriously having this conversation right now? I'm trying to sleep back here."
Ivy whirls toward the back of the cabin, her entire body tensing like a coiled spring.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP MELISSA!"
The force of her voice makes me flinch, my broken body protesting the sudden movement.
Ivy turns back to Maren, her expression set with determination. "There has to be some position that can work for this, right? Some way we can make it happen?"
I clear my throat, my mind racing through possibilities despite the medication fog. "What if we laid me sideways on the bed, and you do the same? You could just ease yourself onto me while facing away from me."
Ivy's head snaps toward me, her look shifting from fury to consideration in an instant. "Oh, like sideways doggy style..."
She looks back at Maren, that calculating focus returning full force. "Could that be doable? He wouldn't be moving at all. I could do all the work. He just has to lie there and take it."
Maren's face cycles through several shades of red. Her fingers grip her medical charts so tightly the pages crumple slightly. "Oh my... uhh... I will look into that, I guess..."
"We can make any position you offer us work. So please find out as soon as possible."
The cabin falls silent except for the steady hum of the jet engines. Maren stares at Ivy like she's trying to determine if this is real life or some fever dream.
"I'll... consult some resources. Perhaps there are case studies on patients with similar injuries who've engaged in... intimate activities."
Melissa leans forward in her seat. "Wait, so the key to winning is sex?"
Ivy's head snaps toward her. "It's your brother's cum."
Melissa's eyes go wide, darting between Ivy and me. "So that's how Blair beat me, huh?"
"No," I say quickly, feeling a deep need to clarify. "Blair didn't like having it inside of her during races. She always made me wear a condom."
Ivy's hand flies to her face as she doubles over with laughter, the sound filling the entire cabin. Her shoulders shake as she gasps for air, genuine amusement transforming her face into pure joy. "What a fucking idiot," she manages between fits of laughter. "To reject such a divine gift. What an absolute buffoon."
The way she says it makes it clear she genuinely believes this, that she considers Blair's practical concerns to be the height of foolishness. Her eyes are watering from how hard she's laughing.
Melissa stares at Ivy with an expression I can't quite read, somewhere between fascination and concern. "Oh wow. You're way crazier than the media portrays you."
Ivy's laughter finally subsides, leaving her wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. She straightens in her seat, that familiar competitive edge sharpening her expression as she turns to face Melissa fully.
"How many Drivers' World Championships in F1 do you have?"
Melissa's grin spreads across her face, slow and arrogant. The expression transforms her features into pure confidence. "How many Indy 500 race wins do you have, Ivy?"
The temperature in the cabin drops about twenty degrees.
"FUCK!" Ivy's scream makes me jump, sending pain shooting through my broken legs. Her hand balls into a fist as she lurches forward in her seat, and for a terrifying moment I think she's actually going to punch through the jet's interior wall. Her arm pulls back, muscles coiling with barely contained violence.
Then she stops mid-motion, her fist trembling in the air. She sucks in a deep breath through her nose, holds it, then releases it slowly through pursed lips. The tension in her shoulders doesn't fully dissipate, but at least her hand unclenches.
"Nick," she says, her voice tight and controlled in a way that's somehow more frightening than the scream, "your sister is pissing me off."
I lean my head toward her, pressing my forehead against her shoulder. The gesture is limited by my injuries, but I hope she understands what I'm trying to convey.
"Be nice," I murmur against the fabric of her shirt.
Her body remains rigid for several heartbeats. I can feel the war happening inside her, the urge to lash out battling against her desire to give me what I'm asking for. Finally, her muscles begin to relax, the fight draining out of her in small increments.
"Fine."