Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters #3)(54)

He has to prop me up to wash my back. I sag against his arm, my chin hanging over his bent elbow. I feel boneless. Gelatinous. Like he could bend me into a pretzel, and it wouldn’t hurt.

When he’s finished washing and rinsing my body, he runs the washcloth over my face and behind my ears.

“Open your eyes, little bird,” he murmurs in English.

My lids drift open. His face is inches away. His expression is tortured.

My voice faint because it’s coming from outer space, I say, “Are you okay?”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t explain. “I’m going to lift you out of the water. Do you think you can stand up?”

I consider it, then nod. “Not for long, though.”

He lifts me from the tub and sets me on my feet on the bath mat, keeping a steadying hand on my hip as he reaches for a towel. Working fast, he dries me off with gentle, clinical efficiency, then wraps the towel around my body and picks me up again.

I rest my head against his shoulder and close my eyes as he brings me back to bed.

When he’s got me arranged comfortably on the mattress, he opens the towel enough to change the dressing on my wound, leaving my breasts and panties covered.

I watch him work, wondering why he’s doing any of this.

“Mal?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

That stops him cold. He glances up at me, his eyes dark, his brows drawn together. Storm clouds gather over his head.

“Don’t thank me.”

“Why not?”

“You were shot because of me.”

“I’m alive because of you.”

His lips thin. He closes his eyes, exhales a short, aggravated breath through his nostrils, then opens his eyes again and glares at me.

“No. I’m alive because of you. Because you took a bullet meant for me. Don’t get it confused in your head. And don’t thank me.”

Glowering, he goes back to work.

“Am I allowed to thank you for taking away the big scary moose?”

When he glances up at me, eyes flashing, I say, “I mean elk.”

“Be. Quiet.”

I whisper, “Because I really hated that thing.”

He mutters something in Russian that doesn’t sound nice then finishes changing the bandage on my belly. He uses medical tape to make it stick. Rising, he goes to the closet and returns with a black Henley identical to the one he’s wearing.

He helps me sit upright and gets me into the shirt.

It’s huge, comfy, and smells like him. I might never take it off.

“Lie back.”

I do as he commands, watching his face as he pulls the shirt down over my hips, then removes the towel from around me, pulling it out from under my body. When that’s done, he says, “Panties on or off?”

Instead of answering, I lift my hips.

He pulls the wet panties off, reaching under the shirt to get to them, then sliding them down my legs. Along with the towel, he takes them into the bathroom.

When he returns, I’m yawning. He pulls the bedcovers over me and tucks me in.

He bends and kisses me on the forehead. Then he returns to the leather chair in the corner and sits down, folding his hands over his stomach and closing his eyes.

“Mal?”

“What?”

“Were you really going to kill me?”

He doesn’t answer. I take his silence as a yes. I yawn again, nestling down against the pillow, snug and clean and exhausted.

I fall asleep with my silent assassin caretaker watching over me, keeping me safe.

This time when I dream of gunfire, he’s there to protect me with a shield and a flaming sword.





28





Riley





For the next few days, Mal is strangely silent. He doesn’t leave me alone again. Whenever I wake up, he’s in the room, sitting in the leather chair, watching me.

He helps me take short walks around the cabin, letting me lean on his arm as I wince and shuffle.

He takes my temperature, cooks my meals and feeds them to me, gives me water and medicine, and helps me in and out of bed when I have to use the bathroom.

When I ask him why he doesn’t own a television, he shakes his head. When I ask how anyone can live without a computer, he sighs. He rebuffs almost all my attempts at conversation, especially if it has anything to do with his lifestyle or something personal about him.

On day four of the silent treatment, he asks out of the blue if I’d like to take another bath.

“Yes,” I say, relieved he’s finally back from wherever he went inside his head. “I’d like that very much.”

Looking pensive, he nods.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging down, staring at the rug. It’s dark outside. All the candles in the cabin are lit, giving it a warm, homey glow.

When he doesn’t move or say anything else, I ask tentatively, “Did you mean now?”

As an answer, he rises, goes into the bathroom, and turns on the bathtub faucet. He comes back and picks me up in his arms.

I don’t argue that I should be walking. He’s not in the mood for my sass, that much I can tell. I just let him carry me into the bathroom and undress me, feeling hideously self-conscious again but trusting now that he won’t make it more awkward for me than it already is.