48
1053 Words
That makes me blink in surprise. “So in addition to being able to walk through walls, you can read minds.”
“No, but I can read faces. Yours is unusually expressive.”
Oh, that’s wonderful. What the hell must my face have been telling him when he was strutting around with his damn shirt off?
I hope it wasn’t the same thing my ovaries were saying, because those horny little egg producers have only one thing on their minds.
My cheeks heating, I glance down at my hands. Mal approaches the bed, flips the covers off my legs, and picks me up. As he carries me to the bathroom, I say, “I’m supposed to be walking.”
“You will be. Let’s get you clean first.”
I don’t have much time to worry about the “let’s” part, because he makes his intentions clear when he sets me on my feet in front of the tub and starts pulling at my sleep shirt.
“Whoa! What’re you doing?”
I jerk away from him so hard, I lose my balance. With his hand gripped around my upper arm, he steadies me so I don’t fall.
He says calmly, “You’re feeling shy. There’s no need to be. I’ve already seen all of you there is to see, inside and out.”
I gape at him in horror, mentally recoiling from all the possibilities of that statement, until he provides me with a detailed explanation that leaves no room for doubt.
“I stood at the head of your bed when they opened your stomach to get the bullet and your damaged organs out. I gave you sponge baths while you were drugged. I changed your clothes, changed your bedsheets, and helped the nurse change your catheter when it got plugged. There isn’t an inch of your body I’m not already familiar with.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and chant, “Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.”
“You’re not dreaming.”
“This has to be a dream. There’s no universe in which this can possibly be real.”
He exhales in impatience. “Don’t be dramatic. Bodies are just meat.”
I open my eyes and glare at him in outrage. “Excuse me for not being deadened to all sense of humanity, Mr. International Assassin, but my body is not meat to me.”
He examines my expression for a moment. “Are you angry because you think I might’ve touched you inappropriately?”
“Jesus!”
“Because I didn’t. I would never take advantage like that. I’m a psychopath, not a pervert. I believe strongly in consent.”
“Well, that’s tremendous news! I feel so much better now!”
Ignoring my scathing tone and blistering hostility, he adds in a husky voice, “And there are many things I’d like to get your specific consent for, Riley Rose, but touching you while you’re unconscious isn’t one of them.”
I thought he’d mindfucked me before, I really did. But that leaves my brain twisted into such a knot, I lose the power of speech.
He turns to the bathtub and tests the water with his hand. Satisfied it’s the right temperature, he shuts off the faucet and straightens. “You can’t get your sutures wet, so the water will only cover your legs. I’ll wash your hair first.”
At the opposite end of the bathtub from the faucet is a small wood stool, a clear plastic pitcher, and a large, oblong metal bucket. Gesturing toward the bucket, he says, “Tip your head over the edge of the tub.”
Then he tugs at my sleep shirt again.
“Mal, I can’t. I can’t get naked in front of you. If this wound doesn’t kill me, the embarrassment will.”
“Embarrassment over what?”
“You seeing me naked!”
“I’ve already seen you naked. I just explained that.”
“You haven’t seen me naked while I’m awake!”
“So you want to smell like a pig pen, is that it?”
“No!”
“Then let me give you a bath.”
“You say that like I’m the unreasonable one!”
“The faster you get over your useless modesty, the faster this will be done.”
“Mal—”
“I promise I won’t look at anything, how’s that?”
“Right. You won’t look at anything while you’re washing my hair and all my naked parts. I’m sure that will be very easy for you.”
“Easier than living with your stench.”
“You know what? I just decided I hate you.”
“Hate me all you want in the bathtub.”
We stand in silence after that. Him waiting patiently, me glaring daggers at his head. I get the sense he’d wait until the end of time before speaking again, so I go first.
“Can’t you understand what this must be like for me?”
“Yes, I can. And I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But you’re not steady enough to get in and out of the tub by yourself or lift the pitcher to rinse your hair. I doubt you even have the strength to lift a bar of soap.”
He seems sincere, but I narrow my eyes at him anyway.
This is a man who kills people for a living. I’m sure he’s quite the accomplished liar.
“I won’t force you,” he says softly. “It’s your choice. I just want to help you feel better. I think a bath will do that.”
“So I could ask you to take me back to bed, and you will?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t hesitate, which makes a dent in my hostility. I glance at the water longingly, imagining what it would be like to sink into it. To wash the ripe smells of sickness and stale sweat off my skin.
“f**k it,” I mutter. Then I turn and give him a hard look. “But don’t make it weird!”
He’s smart enough not to respond to that.
When he turns his back, it confuses me. “What are you doing?”
- Writer
