As we fall into the line of cars, Erik taps the button for the seat warmers and opens the heating vents and points them toward me.
I glance at his muscled thighs. During football practice, I’ve watched him push over a thousand pounds with those legs. How much force can a skull take?
The gurgling sound echoes in my head. My hands rise to cover my ears, and I close my eyes. Opening my mouth, I breathe long and slow, trying to stop myself from being sick.
Time jumps again and again. We’re on a main street. We’re on a side street.
The truck stops moving, and the engine cuts off. I remain still with my elbows resting on my thighs, my head in my hands. All I can do is breathe.
When my door opens and a blast of cold air enters, I shake my head. “I need a minute.”
Erik says nothing, but a moment later, I’m sliding from the seat. I fall against his chest as he cradles me in his arms. He turns and uses his back to close my door.
“I need—” My mouth fills with saliva, and I’m one hard breath away from getting sick all over us. I breathe through my mouth and rest my head against his shoulder as I break out into another sweat.
He carries me all the way into Heyworth House, where the air is too warm and voices are loud.
“First aid kit,” Erik announces, continuing to walk.
A moment later, he sets me on the edge of something.
When I open my eyes, he’s on one knee in front of me, holding me up as I sit on the rim of the old-fashioned tub in the guest bathroom.
“Need to lie down?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
He rises and sets me in the tub.
“I—”
“It’s all right. Just sit there a minute,” he says.
He puts a washcloth under the sink’s faucet and wets it. A minute later, he’s back on a knee next to the tub. He wipes my face with the cloth. I take it and put it over my eyes, which does feel better.
“Here, Erik,” a female voice says. “Gauze and things. Is Arya hurt?”
“No. Set that down and close the door, Reynolds.”
“How badly are you hurt?” I ask, with my eyes still under the wet rag.
“Not very.”
I remember his definition of “not very hurt.” I need to look him over. But my hands are shaking so hard they’re useless. I slide them under my arms, which makes me remember his hands picking me up.
“I’m okay,” I mumble.
“Sure, but leave your eyes closed for a minute. Just rest.”
Even as I wonder what he doesn’t want me to see, I cover my eyes with the washcloth again. Then I feel him remove my lone boot. He peels off both of my socks and pushes up my pant legs. The water turns on in a warm, slow stream that runs over my toes.
After a moment, I feel him soaping up my foot and rinsing it. My eyes and throat burn. Partly, because I know my foot is covered in blood, and partly because he’s so gentle as he washes it for me.
I swallow and blow out a breath. This time when I lower the washcloth, I set it aside. “That’s enough. Let me get up.”
My plan to grit my way through this almost goes sideways, literally. When I stand, I get a head-rush and almost faint. The Viking is nothing if not fast with his hands. He grabs me, which is probably all that saves me from falling and cracking my head on the side of the tub.
He lifts me out and sits me on his knee.
