It takes more effort than it should to lift my heavy lids. I lock onto the blue depths of his gaze. This is real.He’sreal.
The furrow between his brows eases, and he smiles. “There you are. I’m going to help you sit up. Take it slow.”
He slides his arm behind my back. The pale beige walls start to pulse with my heartbeat. As the blankets fall away, I catch sight of the plain, black t-shirt covering my body. It’s not mine.
I’m so confused. I shouldn’t be here. I was supposed to leave at sunrise. But…I woke up shivering—and sweating—at 4:00 a.m. I got in the shower. Or…did I? I remember taking off my clothes. The thick bandage over my hip was bloody. And oozing.
Doc puts his back to the headboard and settles me against his chest. I should complain about the position. About him holding the bottle of water like I’m helpless. But my arms don’t want to work and this just feels so…nice. Real.
Then I get a sip. Ice cold. A weak moan escapes between swallows. This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
“You were damn lucky,” he says when I’ve had my fill. His voice rumbles through me, rich and comforting. “If I hadn’t come home when I did…” He tightens an arm around my waist and buries his face in my hair. “You had a fever of a hundred and two, Nat. I couldn’t get you to wake up.”
Pain bleeds from his every word. I want to tell him I’m fine. That he doesn’t need to worry about me. And something else. There’s something else I should say. But I can’t figure out what it is.
“I gave you IV fluids. A shot of antibiotics. The infection hasn’t spread—that I can tell. But sepsis was—still is—a possibility. If your fever doesn’t break in the next few hours, I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“No.” I can’t manage more than a hoarse whisper. I know what I need to say now. “Have to leave…”
“You’re in no condition to get out of this bed. Let alone leave town.” He’s not as gentle now. Almost…angry. With me? “You popped two stitches. And you didn’t stick around the hospital long enough to get the antibiotics they prescribed for you. What the hell were you thinking?”
He wants to snap at me? I’ll snap back. Or try to. “You almost died. Because of me. Can’t let that happen again.” My words would be so much more effective if there were any strength behind them. Or if three sentences didn’t completely exhaust me.
For several minutes, Doc holds me. His breathing is uneven, almost jerky against my back. I wish I could see his face. Orapologize. But I don’t know what to say. Instead, I focus on a handful of dust particles illuminated by a ray of sunlight coming through the window. It’s late afternoon from the angle. God. How long was I out?
“I need to clean your wound,” he says softly, his lips close to my ear. “Make sure the infection isn’t getting worse. I’ll be right back.”
Doc eases me down onto my side, and I watch him leave the room. He moves slowly. Carefully. I cut a hole in his chest not more than thirty-six hours ago. And now, he’s taking care of me.
He returns with a steaming bowl of water and sets it on the nightstand among bandages, antibiotic cream, and several precisely folded white cloths. Carefully, he arranges the blankets to expose my hip, but nothing…indecent, then sits next to me.
I stare down at my bare legs. I vaguely remember standing in the shower. Wrapping myself in a towel. But now, I’m wearing one ofhisshirts. And nothing else. “Did you…? Was I…naked?” Flames lick up my cheeks. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
“All I found in your bag was a cashmere sweater and two pairs of socks. That’s the softest shirt I own. I wasn’t sure you’d want to wake up in a pair of my boxers.” Doc shrugs, dips one of the white cloths into the water, and wrings it out before removing a thick, white bandage from my hip. “This is going to hurt. I’m sorry.”
When the compress hits my skin, I whimper and turn my face into the pillow.
“Breathe. I promise it’ll be over soon.” With his free hand, Doc rubs slow circles up and down my back. The steady, rhythmic motion calms my racing heart. “Want to tell me how you broke in? And why?”
“Not while you’re trying to parboil me,” I mumble.
Anger stiffens my shoulders at his laugh, but before I can snap at him, he starts to wheeze. The compress falls away a second later.
“Fucking…hell.” He reaches down and comes up with a portable oxygen tank. One twist of his fingers, and the thing hisses as he holds the mask over his nose and mouth.
“Oh, God. Doc? What?—”
He shakes his head, then takes my hand and holds on tight. After another minute—maybe two—he drops the mask and shuts off the airflow. “I’m okay,” he says, though the strain in his voice doesn’t reassure me. “Oxygen is standard…after a pneumothorax. But maybe…don’t make me laugh again…for a while. My ribs hurt like hell.”
Tears prick at my eyes. He’s in terrible pain, but he half carried me to his bed, got me into one of his shirts, and God knows what else. I have a vague memory of screaming in pain at one point. But nothing more than snatches as I faded in and out.
Doc spreads a thin layer of antibiotic cream over the new stitches, then tapes a fresh bandage in place. “Are you hungry? I don’t have much in the house. Broth. Ice cream. Club soda. I was supposed to be on the island until tomorrow. But I can get something delivered.”
I grab his forearm, digging my fingers into the corded muscles. “No. You’re not safe here.We’renot safe here.”
He stares at me for a beat. “I was Air Force Pararescue for seventeen years, Nat. I can handle myself. Even now. There’s no way I’m letting anyone get to you again.”
The fever is making it hard to think. If I’m not careful, I’ll tell him too much. Or not enough. But I have to make him understand. If Bastian has any idea who Doc is, it’s only a matter of time before he shows up here.
