Storm's Heart (Elder Races #2)(27)

If the doctor hadn’t already warned her, she would have been alarmed at how lethargy weighed down her body. The wound still hurt but not with the same kind of inflamed throbbing it had when it had been infected. At least her skin no longer felt like someone had scored it with tiny razor blades. It felt like the fever was gone.

The bedroom was dark and cool. A band of light from the partially closed door shone across the foot of the bed. The television was playing in the other room. It sounded like a news channel. She yawned again and finished her water. She felt hollowed out, and still tired and shaky, but she didn’t think she could sleep any longer.

She clicked on the bedside light, and a moment later Tiago appeared. His long, powerful body filled up the doorway, his lean hawkish features alert. He had changed at some point into a black T-shirt, jeans and boots. The cotton of his shirt strained across the wide muscles of his chest and arms. He wore a shoulder holster and gun. His Power filled the room as he glanced around, and then he looked at her.

She glowered as she remembered how he had helped her to the bathroom. He had shown no sign of unease or self-consciousness but instead had helped her with calm practicality. Still, she pulled the sheet up and tucked it under her arms. She was an earthy person. She wasn’t used to being embarrassed by her body. Why was this any different? All she knew was he was so damn big and overwhelming, and she had an extreme awareness of her own vulnerability around him.

He strode over to her and sat on the edge of the bed, and she fought to keep from cringing from him. A couple of lines appeared between the dark slash of his brows. “How’re you feeling?” he asked.

She ducked her head. “Tired and hungry. A little disoriented.”

“Your wound?”

“It hurts, but nothing like it did before. How long did I sleep?”

“Almost twenty-four hours,” he told her.

Her head came up. “You’re kidding.”

“You got up that once to complain about the IV and go to the bathroom, but other than that, you slept a day away. No wonder you’re hungry. I don’t think you’ve had anything to eat for over two days except for vodka and Cheetos.” His frown deepened. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said.

Those sharp dark eyes dissected her defensive, hunched figure. “I don’t believe you. What’s wrong?”

“Don’t start poking at me until I’ve at least had a cup of coffee and a hot shower,” she said on a spurt of irritation.

For a moment she thought he was going to keep digging at her, but then he smiled a little. “Fair enough. Do you think you can shower by yourself, or are you too shaky?”

“I’ll manage,” she growled as she clutched the sheet tighter to her chest.

“Okay,” he said in a mild enough tone. “I’ll make fresh coffee and order some food. Call if you need anything.”

“I won’t,” she said. “Need anything, that is.”

“Right.” He contemplated her for another moment, as if she was a piece of museum art he didn’t comprehend. Then he stood and walked out. He left the bedroom door ajar again.

She wobbled to her feet and steadied herself with one hand against the wall until she was sure she wouldn’t pass out. When she felt steady enough she went to shut the bedroom door. She took a complimentary hotel bathrobe into the bathroom, shut and locked the door and showered. The doctor had covered her wound with a waterproof dressing. Her side gave a twinge if she didn’t remember to move carefully, but otherwise it gave her little trouble.

Afterward she considered herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. The dramatic purple circles under her eyes had faded to dark smudges. After a cursory examination she ignored her depressed face. There wasn’t anything she could do about her appearance anyway. She finger-combed her damp glistening hair, shrugged on the bathrobe and walked into the living room.

She hadn’t been able to retain many details when they had arrived, so she took a moment to appreciate the understated decor before curling up at one end of the sofa. With a simple color scheme of blues and tans, the suite was plain but well-appointed with sturdy comfortable furniture that had good lines, along with dark wood tables and lamps that provided indirect lighting.

They were in a business suite suitable for someone staying for several days or weeks. It was complete with a small kitchen, or so she surmised from what Scott had said earlier and from what she could see from where she sat. The suite seemed very small compared to the $30,000-a-night rooftop penthouse where she had been staying with the Dark Fae delegation. That sixbedroom penthouse took up the entire top floor of the hotel and came complete with its own kitchen and staff, rooftop garden patio, indoor pool, library, an original Tiffany stained-glass window and a grand piano in the crystal-chandelier-lit foyer. It was very grand and luxurious, but she liked this one’s coziness and functionality.

The living room had a disarranged appearance. A table with a laptop and chair was near the bedroom door. Shopping bags were piled against one wall. Weapon parts were laid out neatly on the coffee table. It looked like she had interrupted Tiago at cleaning his guns.

Headline News was playing on the television. The logo at the bottom of the flat-screen said it was 5:00 A.M. “Five o’clock,” she muttered. “No wonder my body is still whimpering. I’m allergic to early mornings, but I couldn’t stay in bed any longer.”