She’s leaning weakly against the wall, glaring at me.
“I’ll close my eyes,” I growl irritably.
Taking her arm, I support her while she gets undressed, pivoting to the tub to help her in. “Are your eyes still closed?” she asks suspiciously.
“Aye, lass. Just get in and stop fussing.” When I hear her splashing, I seat myself on a bench by the shower. I can see her, just her shoulders and head above the tub’s rim. She’s lying back, eyes closed, and looking blissful.
“You have a bottle of bubble bath just sitting around in your bathroom?” she says, eyes still closed. “I never figured you for a bubble bath guy. Do you have all the aromatherapy salts, too?”
“The bubble bath is for ya,” I say. “A little extra privacy.” Leaning my head against the wall, I smother a yawn. Four days of little to no sleep, then getting stabbed and shot is catching up with me.
“Oh.” I can hear her swishing the bath water. “Thank you. So, the guys who attacked us. Were they from my stepfather?”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “No, they were my problem this time.”
“Yeah, you probably have a lot of people who really hate your guts.” She sounds a bit pleased by this. “So how do you keep track? Like, is there a flow chart based on the enemy and their statistical likelihood of trying to murder you?”
“I like your thinking,” I say approvingly. “As it happens, the clan has a team that keeps a very close eye on all potential threats. This particular group’s attack was unexpected, but we tend to stay prepared for anything.”
More swishing of the water. “I’m glad none of your people died,” she says thoughtfully.
“Aye, me too. Slide down a bit, I’m going to wash your hair.” I open my eyes to see her sink under the bubbles. She’s clearly evaluating her options here. But since she can barely stand upright, I’m winning this battle.
“All right,” she says in the most sulky possible way before issuing a little, “Thank you.”
Running the shampoo through her long hair, I try to think of disgusting things. My cousin Ewan’s spotty ass, which he attempts to show off at every opportunity. Spinach. Flesh-eating bacteria. Because washing her hair should not be making me hard. Not when the poor lass is still so sick and weak. Then, she gives a little sigh of pleasure that nearly undoes me. Gritting my teeth, I rinse her hair, and the conditioner is another exercise inrestraint. As I’m gently scratching her scalp, she lets out a moan that is pornographic. The kind of moan she gave when I made her come, writhing on the bed in Club Vice.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph this woman is killing me.
I manage to get through drying her off and dressing her without coming in my pants like a fecking twelve year old but it’s close.
“Thank you,” she says as I’m pulling up her leggings. “I feel much better.”
She looks healthier, her hair neatly done in a braid and wearing clean clothes. My cousin Catriona dropped by with some new clothes and shoes for Sloan, but I put the jumpers away. I like seeing her in my old t-shirts too much.
“We’re heading up to the roof,” I warn, helping her put on her shoes. “It’s a bit rough up there.”
“Why are we going to the roof?”
“Because that’s where the helicopter is.”
The elevator doors open to something that looks like a tsunami, an earthquake, a wildfire, and an atomic bomb all got together for a raging party. Sloan nearly trips, trying to witness all the destruction.
“What the hell?” she sputters.
“Ya do recall yesterday?” I lift her up into the helicopter, putting a set of headphones over her sweet-smelling hair.
“Well, yeah, but…” She leans over, trying to see the other side of the roof. “This is…”
There’s large craters in the concrete, and two of the ornamental stone corners of the building were ripped away by the explosions. The ground is still littered with bullet casings andthe potted trees and flowers from the rooftop garden are nothing but shredded leaves and broken pieces of ceramic.
“This sounds weird but I feel so sad for the rooftop,” she says, “it looked like it was really pretty before the… who was it again?”
“A bunch of Irish pricks,” I said, getting in and nodding to the pilot.
“A bunch of Irish pricks with a lot of bullets, huh?” she says as we take off.
The flight to Edinburgh is only thirty minutes or so, and Sloan spends the entire flight leaning over me, trying to see it all. The River Clyde runs like a cerulean ribbon through Glasgow before the terrain changes to green hills and then we follow along the coastline to the city.
