His eyebrows rise. “Damn, woman, how dirty did you get?”
I can arrange to get a new mattress tomorrow by claiming it’s because I can’t sleep, but the sheets will be a harder thing to hide.
“Yes, that’s right. I got super into it and soiled the sheets.”
He screws his face up. “Don’t say soiled.”
I snort then grimace as more pain grips me in a vice. I need to?—
His gaze flicks down and what I thought was likely excess water, clearly isn’t.
His eyes widen. “You’re bleeding.”
“Gold star.”
I spin on my heel, slam the door in his face, and clean myself up before replacing the tampon. Again.
I swing the door open, expecting him to have run a mile by now. That’s what men do, right? They see a woman in one of her most natural states and give her a wide berth like she’s carrying adisease. But this is Hunter. And what he should do is rarely what he actually does.
He hasn’t budged an inch. “What do you need?” he asks, his brows drawn low on his forehead. The question almost makes me choke. Fucking hormones.
“Clean sheets.”
He runs a hand over his hair. “Melissa has the spare bedding. She sent it out to get cleaned.”
Oh. Well, fuck. “That’s okay. I can sleep on a few towels or the couch, if you’re comfortable with that.” I move to the side and skirt around him, since he’s not budging.
“No.”
I reach the bedroom doorway, my hand gripping the frame as I breathe through another cramp. This is not good. Maybe I should sleep in the shower.
“Eleanor, stop.”
“Stop what?” I grit out. “I’m not even moving right now.”
“I can’t give you clean sheets, and you aren’t sleeping on a damn towel or my couch. So, what else do you need?”
“Should I sleep on the floor?” I snap, upset but understanding why he’d keep me off the couch. My legs wobble as pain shoots along my spine, my vision spotting as I’m about to go down. Warm arms wrap around me, and Hunter cradles me against his chest as he carries me through the dressing area and into his bedroom. “I don’t know what you think I need, but none of it exists in your sex bed.”
“Sex bed?” He sounds confused but doesn’t turn around and march me somewhere I can’t permanently stain.
“The mirror,” I remind him, like he doesn’t look up every night.
He snorts and gently lays me on said bed. I blink up at him. “Stay here. I’ll grab you something to wear.”
I tilt my head at myself in the mirror, still looking ghostly and weak. Like I’m in any fit state to move right now. He disappears into the closet and returns with a pair of boxer briefs and a faded blue T-shirt. They seem like the perfect combination of clothing right now, and I have no idea why.
“Do you need help putting them on?” he teases with his trademark cocky smirk.
“I can manage.”
“What painkillers have you taken?”
“Tylenol.”
His brows descend his forehead again. “That’s it?”
“Yup.”
