A growl rumbles from his chest. He gently turns me, scanning my body. “Where else?”
“Right ankle.”
He stands and switches positions with me, drawing down my skirt as he does so. Then he crouches, lifting my ankle. “It’s a bump. How?”
“Not sure.” I’m not up to complete sentences as I pull the soft cotton shirt over my head, still sniffling. “Maybe I hit a table?”
He draws in air, expanding his chest. Then he stands. “Lie on your side, facing me.”
I do so and draw up my knees.
“Good girl.” He places a bag of frozen peas that I’ll never eat on my ankle and secures it with a bathrobe belt. What’s his deal with bathrobe belts, anyway? A frozen bag of carrots folds over my aching ribs, providing instant relief. Then he wraps a towel around a baggie of ice and places it over my pounding cheekbone.
“Thank you,” I whisper, surprised he can be so gentle.
He removes his phone from his back pocket and presses it to his ear. “Doc? I need a prescription of hydro, seven-fifties, sent to this address. Now.” He gives my address and ends the call. “You need to contact your men and tell them to expect a delivery.” He hands over my phone.
I call the head of my security and ask him not to shoot the delivery guy.
Thorn replaces his phone and crouches, brushing hair away from my face. “Do you hurt anywhere else?”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
I want to close my eyes and forget the night. “I don’t want to.”
“Too bad. Beginning to end. Right now.” He’s caressing my head, and I just want to purr and go to sleep. The ice is helping, but my injuries ache in time with my heartbeat.
I sigh and then tell him every detail, including that I played along with Cal to get freedom. Not once does Thorn stop massaging my head.
A knock sounds on my outside door and Thorn stands, walking away, his shoulders wide and strong. He soon returns with a glass of water and a pill. “Take this.”
“No.” It’s an automatic response.
He leans over, his face closer to mine. “Your medical records don’t indicate you have a problem with painkillers. Do you?”
Why doesn’t it surprise me that he’s read my medical records? “No, but I don’t want to be out of it.”
He presses the pill between my lips. “I’ll keep watch over you, princess.” Then he holds the water to my lips.
I’m at an awkward angle on my side, but I obediently drink and swallow the pill. Maybe it’ll help with the pain. He places the glass and pill bottle on my bedside table near the rose quartz lamp and then sits on the floor with his back to the small table, so tall we’re eye to eye. I’m not sure what to say, and I’m becoming drowsy. “I don’t want to press charges against Cal.” It would create a media frenzy that I don’t want. I’m embarrassed, but I haven’t done anything wrong, and it’s confusing.
“I understand.” Thorn lifts the ice from my cheek, takes a look, and places it back down.
I stare at him with my good eye. “I don’t want to be responsible for his death, either.”
“You’re not.”
That’s not what I want to hear. “I mean it, Thorn.”
“I’m staying right here with you, Alana Beaumont,” he says softly. “Not going anywhere, so stop worrying about it.”
I’m glad he’s here. Maybe too glad. My eyes fill with tears.
“Stop that,” he whispers, catching a tear with his finger. He licks it clean. “Salty honey,” he murmurs. Then he focuses on me, all intent. “You know it’s different, right?”
I blink away more tears. “Huh?”
“Us and what happened with Cal.”
Oh. That. It is different, and I can’t explain why, but I feel it. Thorn would never punch me in the face. Does spanking me to orgasm make him a good guy? I don’t think so. I’m also not entirely sure I want a good guy. But I do want Thorn. “Yes. It’s different,” I agree. “But the whole withholding orgasm thing really sucks.”
Amusement lights his eyes, fascinating me with the silver streaks. “It’s supposed to.”
“It’s a little extreme.” I might be milking this situation, but I’m okay with that.
His gaze is knowing. “When I text you and you don’t text back, I imagine the worst. You. Hurt. It kills me.” He trails his fingers along my arm. “If you’re going to kill me, you’re going to pay for it.”
That’s both sweet and irritating. “Why did you trade me for a big-assed garnet?”
He sits back. “I can’t tell you about that.”
“Why don’t you trust me?” I ask quietly.
He lifts his chin. “Tell me you’re all in, that you’re mine, and I’ll trust you with everything.”
I’m not ready to do that. He’s too terrifying, and he’s all encompassing. “I don’t want to lose myself.”
