Page 16

FIFTEEN

Inaya

I was once cautioned by one of my colleagues to avoid crazy dick because it’s amazing sex with the biggest problems. How did I respond? I find the craziest dick to ever crazy and jump on that. What did I do? I want to laugh but there is nothing funny. I’m sure that last orgasm had me speaking to my maker, but that’s exactly where Dante is planning to send me.

If this was a normal hookup, I’d probably fade into the background until I could gather my thoughts but it’s not. He’s a fucking assassin, and I’m his target. He’s also a hurt assassin, mentally and physically. That thought is the only thing that makes me open my eyes. Well, that and my bladder beating my ass. I jump a little when I find him propped up on his elbow, looking down at me as if he were watching me sleep.

“Annoying, isn’t it?” he points out with just the slightest hint of amusement coloring his words. “I was wondering how long you were going to pretend to be asleep.”

On the one hand, I’m aware and accept that he has woken up at least twice to me doing the same thing, and on the other, I want to punch him in his hurt thigh. My purpose was innocent fascination, and he’s just mocking me.

“Shut up,” I grumble as I roll my sore body out of bed.

I flinch when my brain catches up. The fact that I just told him to shut up has me turning slowly to assess the situation. He may be wounded, but that doesn’t make him incapable of harming me if he wants. My heart rate slows back down to normal when I’m not met with the dark glare that precedes punishment. Instead, he’s lying on his back in bed with his right arm covering his eyes and the left is propped up to display his middle finger.

I’d be amused, but now that I’m paying attention, there are subtle things that stick out in the medical part of my brain. Even with a hurt leg, he’s too much of a busy body to still be in bed. He’s shielding his eyes, which could mean light sensitivity or headache. His Adam’s apple moves slowly when he swallows. His voice was raspier than usual when he spoke.

I mull over that information while I pee and brush my teeth. I’ll have to move as delicately as a vet trying to treat a wounded lion. He’s in almost the same spot once I return except, he’s not flicking me off.

Dante’s naked chest rises and falls slowly, but he doesn’t appear to be asleep.

“Dante?”

“Hmm!” There is so much irritation in the simple response that I’m sure my assumptions are correct.

“I’m about to check your wound, then redress it.”

He grunts but doesn’t respond otherwise. I gather the items I need and sit on his side of the bed. Dante’s leg still looks aggravated from the cut, not to mention the way he fucked me a few short hours ago, but I still don’t see any signs of infection. I press the parts around the wound to see if it’s more sensitive or hot to touch.

Though he doesn’t make a sound, his body tenses. He does feel warm. My focus goes to cleaning and redressing the wound. I’ll do more investigating in a bit, but I have an idea what’s going on. Once I’m done, I feel his hip since it’s nowhere near his cut, to find that he’s still warm. Leaning, I touch his neck then his forehead.

“You’re hot.”

“Don’t flirt right now, Gatita.”

I roll my eyes, but remember he’s not a normal man right before I smack his chest. “Not that kind of hot. You have a fever, but your cut doesn’t appear to be infected. How’s your throat?” Instead of answering, he sighs and rolls to his left side. “I’m going to take that as confirmation that it hurts. I’m going to make some tea for you, okay?”

Instead of responding, he pulls the sheet up to his shoulder. Yup, definitely sick. Moving to the kitchen area, I occupy myself with making tea and some oatmeal I found. I don’t add anything extra besides a little fruit on the top. I don’t know what his stomach can tolerate right now. As I put the items on the table next to the bed and tell him to eat, I’m greeted by a grunt.

Opting to give him a moment, I disappear into the bathroom to shower and get dressed. My mind races as I calculate what I know. He’s sick without barely any energy to move, so this would have been the time to leave him if I were able. Yet, the crazy part of me asks who’d take care of him if I left. I roll my eyes and turn to rinse my hair, it’s a moot inquiry since I’m not able to cross a large body of water alone.

Dressed, I come out in time to see him stumble, then right himself. His naked body sways a little while he clutches his head. Immediately, I go to him and wrap my arm around his waist.

“What do you need to do, Dante?”

“Just pee,” he rasps as he tries to move independently of me. “I got it.”

“You have a severely cut leg and possibly the flu.”

He snorts at my words, like it’s impossible for him to be sick although he’s just that. “Let go.”

I do as I’m told and step back to watch him shakily make his way to the bathroom. He leans on the doorjamb, taking slow deep breaths, like he’s giving himself a mental pep talk. After a deep sigh, he pushes his way inside to lean on the small vanity. I hate watching people struggle to do something by themselves. I’d want to say he’s being stubborn, but the reality is, he’s all he has. This is normal for him.

He slowly lifts his head, and our eyes meet in the mirror. There are a mix of emotions in his brown eyes, but irritation is the top. I don’t get the feeling like it’s solely aimed at me this time. I don’t feel the spike of fear I’d usually feel when he gives me an evil eye. No, he doesn’t like that I’m seeing him like this.

As if confirming my theory, he limps over to the bathroom door and closes it, leaving me outside. Something crashes, and he groans in pain, and somehow it hurts that he’d rather suffer than allow me to help. I should be amused that he’s suffering but I have a feeling that he’s never not suffering. I choose to do what I can and change the sheets while he does whatever he needs to do.

I hear the shower as I flatten the last wrinkle out of the new sheet. His barely touched oatmeal and the tea stares at me while I sit on the side of the bed, waiting for him. After too much time passes, the silence on the other side starts to worry me. It takes five pep talks to build enough courage to try again. I knock softly and open the door when I’m ignored.

Dante sits on the toilet, using it as a chair, while he rests his head on the sink. The toothbrush dangles from his fingers and toothpaste foam is still present on lips. I take the toothbrush from him and rinse it.

“Did you finish brushing?” I ask and put it back in its place once he nods. I pick up a disposable cup and fill it with water. “Want to rinse?”

He takes the cup and rinses his mouth to spit in the sink. Water drips in fat droplets from his still too wet hair. It’s as if he only had enough energy to shower. I stand in front of him and take the towel from his lap.

“Stop.” His protest is weak and hoarse.

“I’m just helping,” I say gently as I wrap the towel around his head.

He drops his head on my abdomen as I gently massage the water out of his hair. I hear him sniffle before his shoulders shake. It would be jarring if I were anyone else, but as a person who’s spent time as an ER nurse, I know tears are motivated by different things. In his case, I don’t think he’s crying because he’s sick and hurt. I think he’s too sick and hurt to not cry. He doesn’t have the energy to hold in his feelings like he normally does.

I, on the other hand, have the energy to hold in my tears, so I do just that. Although I’m his hostage for whatever my dad did to him, this moment isn’t about me.

“I changed the sheets,” I tell him so we can both pretend he’s not crying. “Let’s get you comfortable so you can go back to sleep.”