Page 7 of The Chief's Captive

RONAN

Morning dawns, and my body stirs me out of my deep slumber. The weight of Maeve's presence next to me isn't lost on me. She's been my nurse around the clock, and while it's not her area of expertise, she's a good nurse. Her bedside manner, however, leaves much to be desired.

I roll to my side, putting a lot of effort into the action. The bullets didn't kill me, but infection almost did. This is the first day I have energy to move. I don’t know what sort of antibiotics she's pumped into my system, but they're finally working. My head isn't throbbing anymore, and I don't feel feverish now. I've mostly been asleep, so waking up to my bedroom and the comforts of home is a pleasant thing.

I swallow hard and feel the dry scratchiness in my throat. But when I reach toward the nightstand and the glass of water, stabbing pain prevents me. My left shoulder and arm are still almost immobile thanks to the round I took to my chest and Maeve's rudimentary surgical tools. I'm sure she was more concerned with removing the lead from my chest than my futuremobility, and I hope this heals and restores my full range of motion.

I sit up, jostling the bed, and painstakingly scoot backward against the Italian leather headboard mounted on the wall behind me. Reaching with my right hand is easier, though I'm left-handed. I am at least able to pick up the glass and sip from it, which is more than I could do yesterday, and tomorrow, I'll do better yet.

Maeve stirs too, rolling to her side and sitting on the opposite side of the bed. I feel her presence more than see her actions. She's been here round the clock with me because I gave the order to keep her here untouched. The fact that she's refused food and any sort of comfort in the form of entertainment or hygiene hasn't escaped me. But eventually, she will break and desire those things to ease her torment.

"I should check your bandages," she mumbles, but she doesn't move again. The bed never shakes. Being taken from your life and thrust into captivity where you're forced to perform and act for others must not be easy for her, but I am deeply grateful for how she saved my life. I'm trying to make this as easy on her as possible.

Meanwhile, my newest enemy, one of my own blood, is still out there. The risk of this happening again or something even worse plays at the corner of my mind. The darkness of my world isn't something Maeve understands, but she will learn. She has to stay now, to be safe from Eamon and my other enemies, and to be available for when—not if—this happens again.

"I'm feeling stronger." I let my feet slide off the edge of the bed until my toes press into the deep pile carpet. I haven't walked on my own since the shooting. Maeve has brought me a bed pan orone of my brothers has helped me to the toilet. But this morning, I'm feeling like I could get up and move. I want to. Lying in bed is torture in and of itself. I'm a man of action. I have to keep busy.

"That's good. You'll heal, and I can go home…" Her words trail off, hanging in the air with a hopeful expectation she will never realize. I've heard the hope fading from her tone slowly for the past week while I lay in my bed and stare at the wall.

"A shower would be nice," I tell her, and she sighs.

It isn't easy for a powerful man like me to be vulnerable with anyone. This incident has brought me to my knees and I've had to rely on my family to support me. At times, I've allowed the thought that they could destroy me enter my thoughts, and it's jaded me. But now that I'm strong enough to move by myself, I feel better.

"I'll call Lochlan," Maeve says. She's learning who I trust and who I hold at arm's length, at least. I suspect at least one of them has been siding with Eamon, even if only a small amount. I can't say which one, but I feel it in my gut.

"You'll do," I tell her, rejecting the idea that one of my brothers will strip me off and bathe me. This isn't like the onsen in Japan where scantily clad, beautiful women scrub me and massage oils into my skin. I just need to feel fresh.

"I am not going to bathe you. I'm not your whore. I'm a doctor." Maeve's edge is showing, the angry, hostile manner she uses to assert her independence and autonomy. I think it's cute. She really thinks she can stand up to me, and maybe that’s because I’m weakened right now, or maybe it's because I haven't shown her who I really am. What I'd really do to her…

Maybe because I've been soft on her because she saved my life.

Her protest sounds vicious, but she joins me on my side of the bed. Her thin satin nightgown remains the only thing she wears beneath her white robe. They're stained in my blood, but even my offer of fresh clothing and nourishment has been refused by her. She's a stubborn one.

I slide off the bed and stand, and as I do, I sway. She's there immediately, wrapping an arm around my waist and bearing up under the weight I put on her. I'm a large man, and she seems as small as a child as I stumble my way toward my bathroom. She struggles and grunts, and I carry myself with as much control as I can.

"My God," she grunts, and she leans on the doorjamb as I pull away from her. I use my right hand to brace myself on the bathroom vanity and walk through the doorway.

I don’t recognize my own face in the mirror. I'm weakened more than I thought. My complexion is paler than normal, maybe due to blood loss, and my eyes have dark shadows. The three white bandages on my chest have dirty brown smears on them, blood still seeping from my wounds.

I catch Maeve's eyes on me, trailing up and down my body, and for a moment, I get the urge to have her, to bend her over this sink and fuck her the way I have so many others who've come before her, but I resist. While the orgasm would be nice, I'm not sure I have the strength. Besides, she's different. The fight in her is arousing, but I respect her reasons for resisting me. I owe her my life.

"I'll need help," I tell her as I stand over the toilet. I slip my dick out of my boxers and see I'm slightly swollen from the thought of having her. But I empty my bladder while she stands there glaring at me.

"I want to go home, Ronan. I don't belong in your world." Maeve is definitely consistent. I'll give her that.

"Take these bandages off." I ignore her comments and watch her reflection in the mirror as she approaches me. Her fingers deftly remove the gauze and tape, revealing angry red skin and black threads that hold me together. The infection is still raging, but I feel it retreating now.

"There," she says, and she tosses the soiled bandages into the trash before turning, but I grab her wrist. "What?" Her eyes flash fury at me, and I calmly hold her arm, preventing her from leaving.

"Start the water and get me a towel. I can't have my men bathing me. This is why you're here." I'm firm, and she knows I mean it. She's had one too many knocks to the head to be rebellious with me.

Maeve doesn't like it, but this is the best place for her. If Eamon ever found out she was the one who saved my life, she'd be dead. At least with me she gets a fighting chance. An enemy of my enemy is my friend, which makes Maeve closer than a friend.

She moves to the shower and turns on the water, drawing steamy spray almost immediately. The glass and tile start to fog up, and she looks around like she's lost. Her eyes sweep around the room, and she stoops to look under the sink, where I keep clean towels. She pulls one out and sets it on the counter, then looks up at me with an attitude.

"May I go now?"

"I will need you to wash my hair. I can't lift my left arm properly right now." My right hand is already on the elastic of my boxerspushing them down, and she averts her eyes as if giving me privacy. As if she hasn't already seen me at full mast.

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