He took one look at Blaéz, tore open the brown paper bag and set a flat glass jar along with a small bottle on the night table. Carefully, Týr removed the gauze she’d placed on the injury. Then he drawled, “You still with me, Sleeping Beauty?”
Blaéz flipped him off.
Snorting, Týr worked fast as if he’d done this many times before, and cleaned the wound again. Unable to remain still, Darci picked up the jacket from the floor. It looked like nothing Blaéz would wear, it just wasn’t his style, and it didn’t smell of him either—actually, it reeked of stale sweat and tobacco. He had to have taken it from someone to cover his ruined shirt. She draped it over a chair then crossed back to Týr’s side. “Let me do that.”
The tall man glanced at her, nodded, and stepped away.
“How did he get here?” Týr asked, raking a hand through hair that looked in dire need of brushing and moved to stand at the foot of the bed.
“I’m not sure.” Darci kneeled on the rug and set to work, dabbing at the blood on Blaéz’s chest. “What happened? Do you know?”
“Casualties of war,” Týr murmured.
Her gaze rushed to the blond man. “War? What war?”
“Inside joke. Just part of the job.”
“What kind of job is this? He could lose his life,” she snapped, tossing the soiled gauze with the others on the table.
“He tries, but I doubt it,” Týr said drily.
Jesus, but the man had a warped sense of humor.
Týr crossed back to the nightstand, picked up the flat glass jar and opened it. A mossy smell, almost like musty roots flooded the air. He handed it to her. “Paste the stuff on his wound, cover it thoroughly.”
She took the small tub, scooped out the dark green ointment, and gently lathered it on the open lesion. Then she placed gauze over it and taped it down. Blaéz’s skin felt too hot. Perspiration beaded his forehead.
“Don’t you think he should see a doctor?” she asked, her worry growing.
Týr shook his head. “No, he’ll be fine, trust me. I’ll take him back now.”
“No…” Blaéz grunted, stirring awake. His eyes clouded with pain. “Have to stay. She needs protection—”
“No, you can’t,” Darci said to Týr at the same time. “He’s hurt, he shouldn’t be moved.” Then she broke off and frowned. “Protection? What are you talking about?”
Blaéz fell silent again.
Darci glanced at Týr, who shrugged a massive shoulder. Did Blaéz mean her attackers? She’d heard the three men Blaéz had flung out of the car were in the hospital with multiple broken bones. She wasn’t a violent person, but it made her feel heaps better to know Blaéz had hurt them. At least they wouldn’t come after her.
“And for the next act,” Týr said, pulling her gaze to him. He unscrewed the cap from the opaque bottle and held it out to Blaéz. “Here. Think of it as fine whiskey.”
Blaéz’s gaze fired open in irritation. “Keep that shit away from me.”
“This should be fun,” Týr muttered. “Okay. Your call, Celt. Since you’ll be laid up for several days without this, guess I’m staying—you know, to keep an eye on you and all that. I’m sure Darci wouldlovemy company—”
With a terse snarl, Blaéz pushed up on an elbow and snatched the bottle with a shaky hand. For a man weakened from his injuries and blood loss, he sure moved fast. Grinning, Týr winked at her.
Darci couldn’t help but smile at Týr’s devious methods. She turned to Blaéz and froze, meeting his searing stare, his features rigid like she’d done something wrong.
Because she’d shared a smile with Týr?
His expression tight, Blaéz swallowed some of the brown liquid and grimaced, but his gaze never left her. A surge of heat spread across her face at that possessive look. Glancing away, Darci took the bottle before it slipped from his unsteady hand. She screwed the top back on, set it aside, and pushed to her feet. “Will that help him?” she asked Týr.
“Absolutely.” He stared at Blaéz for a long moment. “You okay, man? You’re sure not acting yourself.”
Blaéz scowled. “I drank the crap. Now leave me the hell alone—wait.”
“Make up your mind, Celt.” Týr eyebrows wiggled suggestively. “You want me or not?”
