In Rides Trouble (Black Knights Inc. #2)(46)

Goddamn, he was a total reprobate. Here she was in pieces, and all he could think about was getting her naked and driving himself into the wet haven of her female warmth.

“You are strong,” he told her, adjusting her in his lap so she wouldn’t feel his always-optimistic cock pounding in rhythm to his too-fast heartbeat. “Having nightmares after going through a situation like that is normal. Especially since you don’t have any closure. Yet,” he quickly added.

“I think it was sketching him this afternoon. Seeing his face again. It brought it all back, you know?” She sniffled and pushed from his chest to look at him.

Her hair was a mess, her eyes were puffy and bloodshot, her cheek was still discolored, and she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

“I do know. But you need to remember that you’re home now. You’re safe.” And he’d make damned sure she stayed that way.

After a deep, shuddering breath, she nodded and gingerly crawled from his lap.

Instantly, he missed her warmth.

Curling into a ball at the end of the sofa, she shoved her cold, bare feet under his thigh and sighed as he covered her with the afghan draped over the back of the couch.

“Stay with me until I fall asleep, okay?” she asked around a huge yawn. Now that she’d come down from the adrenaline rush, it was going to be lights-out in a hurry.

“I will,” he told her and grabbed her foot, chafing some warmth back into it.

Becky had the most elegant feet he’d ever seen. Long and slim and always with some crazy polish on her toes thanks to her weekly “pedi” as she liked to call it.

The woman was a damned paradox. So tough and tomboyish one minute and then he’d turn around, catch her in a different light, and she was the softest, sweetest, most feminine thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

Her gentle snore had one corner of his mouth lifting before the thought of what needed to be done had him scowling into the darkness.

There was no more putting it off. The surgery…

He’d thought maybe…but, no. If he had any hope of being able to protect her, of being able to continue his job, he had to have the use of both arms.

Ever since he’d left Dr. Keller’s office with assurances that he’d be just fine, that they’d be careful with the dosage of the general anesthesia and monitor him closely, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the surgery would end with his shaking the bony hand of the Reaper.

He wanted to chalk it all up to paranoia, but a growing part of him was beginning to believe it was something a lot closer to premonition.

Still, Shell assured him he was being silly and, yeah, when he stepped outside himself and looked at the situation rationally, he couldn’t help but agree with her.

So…it was time he quit acting like a * and started acting like the steel-balled warrior he was. His men needed him. Becky needed him. And if there was a chance he could be made whole again…

He’d call Dr. Keller’s office in the morning.

***

The pain in his hand was back, sharp and piercing as the moment that stupid bitch had shoved the length of her big knife into it.

“Unnngh,” he moaned, not wanting to wake fully, afraid when he opened his eyes all he’d see was cloudless blue sky and kilometer after kilometer of bright, rolling ocean.

“Wake up,” a deep voice commanded in heavily accented English.

Sharif blinked in confusion at the dark face of the strange man leaning over him. He grimaced when something tightened painfully around his arm, then swallowed a cry of relief when he realized it was a blood-pressure cuff.

“What’s your name?” the man asked, a doctor by the looks of him. The stethoscope, the white lab coat, the stern expression all fit the bill.

Sharif turned his head and the room around him shimmered into focus. White walls, white tile floors, and a blue door with a file holder attached to its metal surface.

It was a hospital. He was in a hospital. He made it! He was alive!

He wanted to whoop with the joy of it, but a sudden shaft of pain lanced through his hand, making him grimace instead.

“What’s your name?” the doctor repeated the question in Somali, but Sharif just shook his head, biting his bottom lip against the fiery agony shooting up his arm. Despite the coolness of the air-conditioned room, sweat broke out on his forehead and beaded on his upper lip.

“All right,” the doctor said, “don’t strain yourself. We will answer all of these questions later. Like who you are and what you were doing piloting a boat that was reported hijacked almost two weeks ago.”

Sharif’s eyes snapped open as he scanned the doctor’s hard expression. An icy chill washed over him, momentarily freezing the sweat on his skin and the rhythm of his heart.

The doctor knew what he was, or more appropriately, what he’d become. A pirate. And that meant he was in deep, deep trouble.

“Where am I?” he managed to rasp.

“Ah,” the doctor smiled narrowly, unwinding the stethoscope from around his neck. “So you do understand what I am saying.”

He swallowed. His throat was excruciatingly dry, like he’d been ingesting wads of cotton for a week.

“You are in Mombasa, Kenya,” the doctor explained, plugging the earbuds of his stethoscope into his ears and placing the cool, round diaphragm above Sharif’s pounding heart. “And it is a good thing, too. Had you made the Somali coast, you would have been lucky to find anyone who could save that hand.”