But still worried.
At five, I dish up two plates of leftovers from last night’s pasta. I leave one in the fridge for Marlen and carry the other to the living room to eat in front of the TV.
At six, I clean up.
At seven, I’m wondering if I should maybe go outside and try to convince one of the guards to tell me if he knows anything.
At quarter past seven, Marlen arrives home.
My first reaction is relief. Then anger that he made me so restless all day.
I don’t get up to greet him, instead staying on the sofa and watching the series. I have no idea what’s going on in it, but it’s playing anyway.
Marlen walks in and mutters, “Hello.”
I turn toward him to say hi, but when I see him, my heart sinks.
“You look terrible!” I say, jumping up and rushing to him. My heart is immediately flooded with empathy.
“I haven’t eaten or slept, and I…” He staggers a little, swaying.
I quickly wrap my arms around him to steady him. My hand presses against his side, and it feels damp and sticky. When I lift my fingers and look down at them, they are red with his blood.
“You’re hurt!” I blurt out.
“It’s not bad, it’s just… I think a bullet grazed me. I’m going to bed. I need sleep.”
“No, not a chance. I’m looking at this first, then you’ll eat something, and then you can go to bed.”
He narrows his eyes at me, but he’s too tired to argue, so he lets me lead him to the guest bathroom downstairs. “Take off your shirt, and tell me where your first aid kit is,” I demand.
Marlen huffs in annoyance, and as he unbuttons his shirt, he gestures with his chin toward the bathroom cabinet. “There’s a first aid kit in every bathroom in this house.”
“Handy,” I mutter. “I guess it means you get hurt often.”
When I turn back toward him, carrying the black zip-up case, he is shirtless, sitting on the edge of the bath. I bite down hard on my own teeth. The muscles across his chest and stomach and perfectly chiseled. He is the ultimate sight of masculinity. My eyes roam over him, and my body spikes with feverish desire, which, no matter how hard I try, I can’t smother.
I kneel in front of him and continue to bite down, so I don’t say something stupid.
He watches me with those gorgeous hazel-green eyes.
He was right. The wound isn’t bad. The bullet skimmed past him and cut into his flesh, but it isn’t deep, just long and bleeding a lot.
I work carefully, cleaning the area, disinfecting, taping bandages over the wound to pull it closed and stop the bleeding. “How did you end up almost getting shot?” I ask, looking for anything to distract myself from his perfect body and rugged, tired sexiness. I have my hand all over his skin, and every time I touch him, it seems that electricity jumps between us.
“Almost shot? Ididget shot,” he argues.
“This… this isn’t getting shot. You got grazed. It doesn’t count,” I sass. My attitude is only an attempt to hide the growing lust.
He smirks, one corner of his mouth curling up. “I see. I didn’t know there were rules to define whether or not a bullet breaking your skin counts as being shot or not,” he muses.
“There are,” I say bluntly.
“Would this count?” he asks, leaning back and pulling the band of his pants lower to show me a thick, round scar right next to his Adonis muscles. My eyes trace over the scar, but then over him instead. The curve that leads a trail lower into his pants to…
I groan inwardly, an involuntary moan that sounds desperate. Horrified, I press my lips together and snap my eyes back onto the wound I’m tending.
“Did the bullet go straight through?” I ask, my voice tight with control.
