“I need to use the bathroom and you’re gripping me so damn tight I can’t move,” I throw back at him. What the hell did he expect thinking he could touch me? After some sleep, I have found my voice again, along with my bitchy-as-hell attitude, thank fuck for that. Part of me thought I was broken.
Reluctantly he releases me, flopping onto his back. “Had to make sure you wouldn’t escape in the night,” he mutters, but I can tell he’s only half serious.
I sit up with a pained groan, glancing back at him as I do. His hair is hanging over his eyes with a little wave to it. He looks way too gorgeous for this hour of the morning. “We both know you locked me in, and I can hardly walk. Otherwise, I would have tried as soon as you were asleep,” I snip back, just to keep him on his toes. I go to stand up and wince as soon as I try and apply pressure to my sore ankle. Damn it, I really fucked it up.
He’s out of bed and by my side in an instant, taking my arm carefully.
“I’m fine, I can walk to the bathroom.” I try to shove him away, but he doesn’t budge.
He stares me down, his face growing more serious. “Stop being so damn stubborn, Sloane, let me help you.”
I glare back at him but that only makes things worse, because it’s then I notice he’s just in black sleep pants, low-slung and showing off every rippled muscle of his perfect abdomen all the way down to his Adonis belt. Fuck, he’s a god. I have to close my mouth to stop drooling. “Fine,” I snap at him just because I know I clearly can’t do it alone, not because I want his help.
Pleased, he snakes his arm around my waist, the warmth radiating off his body way more comforting than I want it to be as he helps me to the bathroom. He releases me once I’m safely inside and closes the door for me, looking me over in a way I don’t appreciate. Too much warmth or something I don’t want from him.
Doing my best to lean on my good leg, I do my business, then wash up, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror. I’m bruised and battered, the scratches of last night, now red lines with blue bruises under the skin, run up my arms and over my legs. My feet are also covered in marks. My knees look terrible, swelling and bruising all around them. My face looks haggard, bags hanging under my eyes in a way they never have before from such lack of sleep. I take a washcloth and realize I’m trembling like crazy. I stare at my hands, trying to get the shaking under control, but I can’t. It feels like my body is freaking the fuck out. Carefully I wash my face, but my appearance doesn’t improve. This is me now, guess I have to rock the half-dead look.
With a heavy sigh, I prop my ass on the edge of the bath so I can unwrap the compression bandage covering my ankle. A wave of nausea comes over me when I see how terrible it looks. It’s swollen up all over, bruising running from my calf all the way down to my toes.
Fuck, it’s worse than I thought. It really could be broken. On shaky legs, I cling to whatever I can to walk back to the bedroom. I open the door to find Orlando waiting for me on the other side.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, seeing my face.
I motion to my ankle, and he winces when he sees how bad it is. His reaction makes me worry even more.
“I’ll call my doctor for you after breakfast. Why did you take it out of the bandage?” he asks, a hint of anger in his voice.
I shrug, feeling like I’m in trouble. “I wanted to see how bad it was.”
With his arm wrapped tightly around me, he helps me back to the bed and takes the bandage from me. Kneeling down in front of me, he takes my sore ankle and starts wrapping the bandage back around.
I watch him, unable to take my eyes off him. If I didn’t know the truth, I would be seriously swooning right about now. A handsome-as-hell man on his knees before me, taking care of me, it’s a little too dreamy to be true. That’s how I know it’s not.
“Leave this on until the doctor arrives to assess you,” he says, his bossy tone back.
I stare down at him, confused by his care with me. “Why are you helping me? What do you care if I’m hurt or not?” I snap back, bitchy as hell.
He sighs heavily and stands so he’s now looking down at me as he runs a hand through his hair, small stress lines appearing on his forehead. “Don’t push me today, Sloane. My patience is wearing thin after you hurt yourself so badly yesterday.”
My eyes narrow. What the fuck? He’s pissed at me because I’m hurt. Fuck him. This is all his fault.
When I don’t say anything in response, he nods, satisfied. “I have had some of your belongings brought down to my room. Get changed, and we can have some breakfast together.”
I want to snap back at him and say that they’re not my belongings, my belongings were all destroyed back in Ravens Hollow. The stuff he is referring to is the expensive shit he’s bought me so I can dress up for him. But with his serious expression and all the trouble I caused yesterday, I hold my tongue.
He moves into the walk-in closet and comes back out with a white linen shirt and a pair of trousers. He strips off the sleep pants he was wearing in one quick move, not even bothering to turn around and hide himself from me, and my mouth nearly falls open. When did we start changing in front of each other? I don’t know where to look, but my eyes won’t let me look away either. I eat up every damn inch of him, and there is a lot to look at. His body is chiseled from stone, with just a light scattering of hair, and you just know he makes good use of his home gym. His cock is thick and hangs heavy between his legs, and I don’t miss the small twist of his lips as he catches me checking him out.
When he pulls his boxer briefs on, he turns around, yanking up his pants. The sight of his back makes my breath hitch in shock. His back is a landscape of faint, raised, and uneven scars. The type of marks that couldn’t just be surface wounds; they are etched into his skin so deeply, leaving a painful, lingering memory, I’m sure.
As he slips his shirt on, then turns back toward me, I blink back at him. He knows what I have just seen, but I don’t dare ask him how he got them. Or why he changed in front of me. “Now we are even,” he mutters, his eyes meeting mine.
“W…what?” I stutter, still trying to process what I just saw.
He walks toward me as he buttons his shirt. “I have nothing to hide from you, Sloane.”
He thinks we’re even for all the fucking stalking shit he’s done to me. For changing me and watching me fuck other dudes. I huff out a laugh. “I don’t think so, Orlando.”
He chuckles playfully, still watching me as he takes a step closer, holding out a hand for me to take. “Do you need a hand?”
