For a long moment he thought she might ignore him. Then she sighed, and the curled knot under the blanket unfurled. “Come in.”
He pushed the door open the rest of the way and prowled in. That was when he saw the puck. Robin had been perched on the headboard. His dark eyes glistened in the shadows. What was he thinking?
As Nikolas approached, Robin slipped down off the headboard and disappeared into another part of the cottage. With a frown, he watched the puck leave. He would never understand Robin, no matter how long either of them lived.
Then he stood by the bed, looking down at Sophie. Even in a shadowed room as dark as this, her eyes gathered every particle of light and magnified them, gleaming like stars. He could see she was uncomfortable with him standing over her, so he nudged her thigh. As she shifted, he sat on the edge of the mattress.
“Watch yourself,” he said. Reaching over to shade her eyes, he turned on the bedside lamp. Underneath his palm, he saw her wince.
“Is the light really necessary?” she said grumpily.
“I don’t know.” He removed his hand and watched her squint.
“How did you not get splashed with blood?” she muttered, eyeing his shirt with resentment. “I almost drowned in it.”
“I was moving fast, while you were on the floor. I got some splashed on my legs.” He angled his head. “Show me where you hurt.”
She grimaced. “Just assume if it’s between the top of my head and the bottom of my feet, it hurts.”
“You said you pulled something in your side. Was that the place you got shot?”
With a sigh, she replied, “One of them.”
She had been shot multiple times. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he absorbed the news. When he was confident that he could sound calm and steady, he urged her, “Show me.”
She sighed again, this time impatiently, and flung back one corner of the blanket. Underneath, she wore a spaghetti strap tank top and matching shorts that were very short. They showed off the long line of her slender, muscled legs. She pulled up one corner of the tank, and he saw the scar.
It was a skewed starburst of ridged, livid flesh under the right side of her rib cage, still new enough that the redness hadn’t had a chance to fade. Not questioning his impulse—not thinking about anything other than reacting to the visual evidence of how her life had been in jeopardy—he touched the ridged scar lightly with the tips of his fingers.
Watching him, she said nothing, did nothing, although he could tell by her clenched tension that something about revealing the injury was difficult for her.
“Where else were you shot?” he murmured.
“Right thigh, left shoulder.” She clipped out the words.
Now that she had mentioned it, he could see the edge of the scar peeking out from the tank top, in the flesh of her shoulder, just over her right breast. So her body had been strained on both sides tonight.
He could also see large bruises and contusions on her legs and arms. No doubt she had them on her back as well. She had hit the floor hard, and the Hound had landed its full, considerable weight on top of her.
This time, without asking, he took the edge of the blanket and lifted it farther to reveal the jagged slash on her leg. The scar was a violation of that beautiful, creamy cinnamon-speckled skin. She would have needed surgery on all three wounds. He had known she was still recovering somehow, but this was more, and far worse, than he had imagined.
With gentle firmness, he laid one hand flat on her abdomen, covering the scar. With his right hand, he covered the scar on her shoulder. She took hold of his wrists but didn’t try to force him away.
Then in his native tongue he said the invocation for healing, and Power flowed into her until her body glowed with it. Connected to her as he was, he could sense her pain lessen. Torn, inflamed muscles eased, and the massive bruises faded. They didn’t disappear totally and still showed like faint shadows of mortality darkening her skin. But the deep, livid red was gone.
When he was finished, he didn’t lift his hands from her body. Instead, carefully pressing down, he leaned over her and met her wide, questioning eyes, his expression hard.
“You had no business running into that pub, Sophie Ross,” he said, quietly stern. “No business, especially with serious injuries that are still so fresh.”
She said in a steady voice, “Fuck you, Nikolas whatever-the-fuck your last fucking name is. I was going to say thank you, but then you ruined the fucking moment.”
“Sevigny,” he said.
He could see in her expression that, exhausted or not, she had clearly meant to rip into him some more for his high-handed attitude, but at that, she paused, thrown off stride.
“It’s my last fucking name,” he told her. “Sevigny. And you say ‘fuck’ too often.”
Something sparked in her eyes, and he could tell she almost—almost—smiled. “Fuck yeah, I do. And it’s none of your fucking business how often I say ‘fuck.’ Nor is it any of your fucking business if I choose to run into a pub because people are being attacked, if I rescue a dog who’s been abused, or if I decide to fucking jaywalk just because I feel like it—”
“You’re actually maddening,” he said on a note of discovery. “You. Madden. Me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do I look like I care? Let me lay out a few more things for you. Don’t assume I give a shit what you think. Don’t expect me to believe the world revolves around you—because it doesn’t, bucko. It doesn’t. And don’t think just because you helped me to feel better—thank you, by the way, I really do feel better—that I’m going to start paying attention to anything you say to me.”
He pushed the door open the rest of the way and prowled in. That was when he saw the puck. Robin had been perched on the headboard. His dark eyes glistened in the shadows. What was he thinking?
As Nikolas approached, Robin slipped down off the headboard and disappeared into another part of the cottage. With a frown, he watched the puck leave. He would never understand Robin, no matter how long either of them lived.
Then he stood by the bed, looking down at Sophie. Even in a shadowed room as dark as this, her eyes gathered every particle of light and magnified them, gleaming like stars. He could see she was uncomfortable with him standing over her, so he nudged her thigh. As she shifted, he sat on the edge of the mattress.
“Watch yourself,” he said. Reaching over to shade her eyes, he turned on the bedside lamp. Underneath his palm, he saw her wince.
“Is the light really necessary?” she said grumpily.
“I don’t know.” He removed his hand and watched her squint.
“How did you not get splashed with blood?” she muttered, eyeing his shirt with resentment. “I almost drowned in it.”
“I was moving fast, while you were on the floor. I got some splashed on my legs.” He angled his head. “Show me where you hurt.”
She grimaced. “Just assume if it’s between the top of my head and the bottom of my feet, it hurts.”
“You said you pulled something in your side. Was that the place you got shot?”
With a sigh, she replied, “One of them.”
She had been shot multiple times. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly as he absorbed the news. When he was confident that he could sound calm and steady, he urged her, “Show me.”
She sighed again, this time impatiently, and flung back one corner of the blanket. Underneath, she wore a spaghetti strap tank top and matching shorts that were very short. They showed off the long line of her slender, muscled legs. She pulled up one corner of the tank, and he saw the scar.
It was a skewed starburst of ridged, livid flesh under the right side of her rib cage, still new enough that the redness hadn’t had a chance to fade. Not questioning his impulse—not thinking about anything other than reacting to the visual evidence of how her life had been in jeopardy—he touched the ridged scar lightly with the tips of his fingers.
Watching him, she said nothing, did nothing, although he could tell by her clenched tension that something about revealing the injury was difficult for her.
“Where else were you shot?” he murmured.
“Right thigh, left shoulder.” She clipped out the words.
Now that she had mentioned it, he could see the edge of the scar peeking out from the tank top, in the flesh of her shoulder, just over her right breast. So her body had been strained on both sides tonight.
He could also see large bruises and contusions on her legs and arms. No doubt she had them on her back as well. She had hit the floor hard, and the Hound had landed its full, considerable weight on top of her.
This time, without asking, he took the edge of the blanket and lifted it farther to reveal the jagged slash on her leg. The scar was a violation of that beautiful, creamy cinnamon-speckled skin. She would have needed surgery on all three wounds. He had known she was still recovering somehow, but this was more, and far worse, than he had imagined.
With gentle firmness, he laid one hand flat on her abdomen, covering the scar. With his right hand, he covered the scar on her shoulder. She took hold of his wrists but didn’t try to force him away.
Then in his native tongue he said the invocation for healing, and Power flowed into her until her body glowed with it. Connected to her as he was, he could sense her pain lessen. Torn, inflamed muscles eased, and the massive bruises faded. They didn’t disappear totally and still showed like faint shadows of mortality darkening her skin. But the deep, livid red was gone.
When he was finished, he didn’t lift his hands from her body. Instead, carefully pressing down, he leaned over her and met her wide, questioning eyes, his expression hard.
“You had no business running into that pub, Sophie Ross,” he said, quietly stern. “No business, especially with serious injuries that are still so fresh.”
She said in a steady voice, “Fuck you, Nikolas whatever-the-fuck your last fucking name is. I was going to say thank you, but then you ruined the fucking moment.”
“Sevigny,” he said.
He could see in her expression that, exhausted or not, she had clearly meant to rip into him some more for his high-handed attitude, but at that, she paused, thrown off stride.
“It’s my last fucking name,” he told her. “Sevigny. And you say ‘fuck’ too often.”
Something sparked in her eyes, and he could tell she almost—almost—smiled. “Fuck yeah, I do. And it’s none of your fucking business how often I say ‘fuck.’ Nor is it any of your fucking business if I choose to run into a pub because people are being attacked, if I rescue a dog who’s been abused, or if I decide to fucking jaywalk just because I feel like it—”
“You’re actually maddening,” he said on a note of discovery. “You. Madden. Me.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do I look like I care? Let me lay out a few more things for you. Don’t assume I give a shit what you think. Don’t expect me to believe the world revolves around you—because it doesn’t, bucko. It doesn’t. And don’t think just because you helped me to feel better—thank you, by the way, I really do feel better—that I’m going to start paying attention to anything you say to me.”
