Page 91 of Savage Hearts

Oh, that’swonderful. What the hell must my face have been telling him when he was strutting around with his damn shirt off? Ihope 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, butmybody is not meat tome.”

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 pigpen, is that it?”

“No!”