Page 94 of Savage Hearts

His lips thin. He closes his eyes, exhales a short, aggravated breath through his nostrils, then opens his eyes again and glares at me.

“No.I’malive because ofyou. Because you took a bullet meant for me. Don’t get it confused in your head. And don’t thank me.” Glowering, he goes back to work.

“Am I allowed to thank you for taking away the big scary moose?”

When he glances up at me, eyes flashing, I say, “I mean elk.”

“Be. Quiet.”

I whisper, “Because I really hated that thing.”

He mutters something in Russian that doesn’t sound nice, then finishes changing the bandage on my belly. He uses medical tape to make it stick. Rising, he goes to the closet and returns with a black Henley identical to the one he’s wearing.

He helps me sit upright and gets me into the shirt.

It’s huge, comfy, and smells like him. I might never take it off.

“Lie back.”

I do as he commands, watching his face as he pulls the shirtdown over my hips, then removes the towel from around me, pulling it out from under my body. When that’s done, he says, “Panties on or off?”

Instead of answering, I lift my hips.

He pulls the wet panties off, reaching under the shirt to get to them, then sliding them down my legs. Along with the towel, he takes them into the bathroom.

When he returns, I’m yawning. He pulls the bedcovers over me and tucks me in.

He bends and kisses me on the forehead. Then he returns to the leather chair in the corner and sits down, folding his hands over his stomach and closing his eyes.

“Mal?”

“What?”

“Were you really going to kill me?”

He doesn’t answer. I take his silence as a yes. I yawn again, nestling down against the pillow, snug and clean and exhausted.

I fall asleep with my silent assassin caretaker watching over me, keeping me safe.

This time when I dream of gunfire, he’s there to protect me with a shield and a flaming sword.

TWENTY-EIGHT

RILEY

For the next few days, Mal is strangely silent. He doesn’t leave me alone again. Whenever I wake up, he’s in the room, sitting in the leather chair, watching me.

He helps me take short walks around the cabin, letting me lean on his arm as I wince and shuffle.

He takes my temperature, cooks my meals and feeds them to me, gives me water and medicine, and helps me in and out of bed when I have to use the bathroom.

When I ask him why he doesn’t own a television, he shakes his head. When I ask how anyone can live without a computer, he sighs. He rebuffs almost all my attempts at conversation, especially if it has anything to do with his lifestyle or something personal about him.

On day four of the silent treatment, he asks out of the blue if I’d like to take another bath.

“Yes,” I say, relieved he’s finally back from wherever he went inside his head. “I’d like that very much.”

Looking pensive, he nods.