I close mine.
My cheeks heat, and I can almost forget that gnawing pain consumes every joint in my body, that I can barely move, that I’m a prisoner here, held by a creature sobeautiful I can hardly look straight at him because it’s like staring into the sun. I sleep again.
I wake again to light streaming through the window into the small room. The pain is less today, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the pills my captor has been giving me or if my fibro flare is running its course. For the first time, he’s not in the room. I glance down at the stuffed dragon in my arms and then throw it to the other side of the bed. How long have I been out? The pills on the bedside table say every twelve hours. I try to think back. How many times did he help me swallow them? The bottle says ten pills. I pour the remainder out in my hand. Five left. I’ve been out almost three days. Jesus. Has Roman tried to get me back? Is Vivian freaking out?
I tip the pills back into the bottle and set them on the nightstand.
For the first time, I’m awake enough to take in my surroundings. This is a cute room. Rich woods and dark-blue-and-green-plaid linens. A leather recliner in the corner has a navy-colored pillow with a Labrador on it. The drapes are a matching navy. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was in a five-star hotel rather than my captor’s cabin.
My captor. Connor. What the fuck is he? I remember wings. We flew fast. Far. Not human. Dragon. Something about an order. That murder in Paris. People who want him dead.
I sigh and glance in the direction of the en suite bathroom. It’s right there but feels so far away. I try to push up into a sitting position, but my head spins. Stripes ofpain erupt down my back like I’ve been clawed open. I flop back down on the bed with a whimper.
The door opens and the Viking walks in. Damn it. Why does he have to look like that? And see me like this? So vulnerable. So weak. I bet he’s loving that his prisoner can’t put up a fight.
He swallows, and I have to admit he doesn’t look like he’s loving this. He looks concerned. Really fucking concerned, like he’s afraid I might be dying. “I heard you moan. Are you okay?”
Am I okay? Am I the fuck okay? Oh shit, here it comes. I’m angry, and something about this guy just makes me want to erupt. “No, motherfucker, I am not okay. My entire body hurts like I’m on fire, I haven’t eaten since the bread and cheese you fed me like, I don’t know how long ago, I think my painkiller stopped working, and I’m stuck here with you in the frozen tundra of God knows where, rather than in my own bed with my new husband in the south of France. Why on earth would you think I’d be okay? You empty-headed, lizard-brained, Viking-sized piece of shit!” I clap a hand over my mouth to stop the verbal diarrhea pouring out of me.
Oh. My. God. Have all my instincts for self-preservation gone out the window? What the fuck was I thinking talking to this thing, this creature, like that? I’d never speak to Roman like that. I’d never speak to anyone like that. But something about Connor just seems to bring it out in me.
He peers at me through narrowed eyes for a moment. And then, as if he’s as surprised as I am and thoroughly amused by my behavior, he starts to laugh. He winks atme like I’m a kitten scratching at him uselessly with my tiny claws. “Glad you’re feeling better, Fi.”
“Who said you could call me Fi?”
“No one. I do what I want.”
“Obviously, or I wouldn’t be here, would I?”
There’s a beat where I think he’s going to say something, and then he’s scooping me into his arms.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Bathroom.”
“How did you know I needed to use the bathroom?” A chill runs through me at the idea that he can somehow tell.
He sets me on my feet in front of the toilet. “It’s been twelve hours since I last carried you in here. Call it a lucky guess.”
I wait. “Aren’t you going to leave?” I nod toward the door.
“You need help?” He gestures toward my lower half.
“No!” I say emphatically. All I’m wearing is Connor’s huge sweatshirt and my underwear, and I do not want him pulling down my underwear. Then I realize we’ve been here before and he’s already helped me with it. My cheeks heat again.
“Right. I’ll be on the other side of the door if you need me,” he mumbles.
I wait until he delivers on his promise before slowly drawing up the sweatshirt and using the toilet. It takes me four times longer than it should. When I’m finished, I manage to pull myself together and wash my hands, catching my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Shit, I’m a mess. My hair is sticking out at odd angles, stiff inplaces from leftover hairspray but falling or sticking out in others. Mascara trails under my eyes to my chin, and a sheet mark is etched from my temple through my left eyebrow from sleeping on my side.
I feel a wave of embarrassment and then check myself. Why does it matter how I look? I’m his hostage. He should have to see me like this the entire time. He should know exactly what he’s done to me. Then again, I know I’ll feel better if I get cleaned up.
I dig in a drawer and find a hairbrush, the feel of it running through my shoulder-length tresses positively heavenly. I use the hand soap to wash my face. It’s painful and slow, but I do it. When I’m done, I still have dark circles under my eyes. I don’t look pretty by any means. But I feel more like myself. Now if I only had a?—
“There’s an extra toothbrush in the drawer,” he says through the door.
I bristle. How did he know I was thinking about my teeth?
“I heard the water running. Thought you might want to clean up.”
