Page 114 of The Reluctant Wife

"Me too." He squeezes my fingers. "How are you doing?" He scans my features. "You look tired."

"I’m going to be just fine." I manage a small smile. "You gave me a scare."

"I remember being hit…" His forehead furrows. "And then… You talking about wanting orgasms?" His brow clears. A sly smile plays around his mouth. "I owe you a great many of them, considering you saved my life."

"It’s the doctors who saved your life," I point out.

"You applied pressure to the bullet wound when you reached me. Your actions helped stem the blood loss, and improved my chances considerably.”

"You took a bullet for me." A ball of emotion knots my throat. "If you hadn’t been there?—"

"There is nowhere else I could have been. I took a vow to look after you, and I take my promises very seriously. As long as I am alive, I swear nothing—and I meannothingand noone—can touch a hair on your head."

The vehemence in his words triggers a tsunami of emotions within me. I’ve heard him say this before, but to hear him say this after seeing his lifeless body on the ground brings home just how much he means it. "When I saw you unmoving and the blood pouring out of your wound"—I shake my head—"I thought I’d lost you."

This time, he grins, a very confident, jaunty smirk. "And miss out on the orgasms I owe you? Nope, not letting you go that easily."

I half laugh. Then the emotions overwhelm me, and I begin to cry, great sobbing gusts that make me cringe, and yet I can’t stop. I turn my head away, so he won’t see me and, hold onto his hand like it’s my only anchor in a storm.

"Hey, baby, hey. Look, I’m completely okay." He tries to sit up, and that shocks me enough that I pause mid-sob.

"Stop! You shouldn’t be doing that; they just operated on you."

"It’ll take more than a bullet to slow me down." He pulls me onto the bed, and I give in. The need to be near him, to be in his arms, to feel his skin against mine so I can assure myself that he really is okay is too overpowering. I climb onto the bed, taking care not to displace the various tubes attached to him.

Then, I lift his arm and place it around my shoulders and curl into his side.

Instantly, the beeping increases in frequency. "Proof of how you affect me, Empress." He chuckles.

I look up at him with worry. "Maybe, I should?—"

I begin to pull away, but he holds me in place. "Don’t you dare."

I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering if I should disobey him, but everything inside me insists I obey. Hurt as he is, his power over me hasn’t diminished. The dominance that clings to him like a second skin has not been tempered by his wounded state.

He resembles an apex predator who’s been temporarily laid low but is far from vanquished. With the bandages and his mussed-up hair, he’s even more appealing. The vulnerability that I glimpsed when I held his hand as he was unconscious adds another dimension to him. It makes him even more attractive, sexier. But it’s also a sign that he’s human. That next time, he might not be this lucky.If something were to happen to him—I push the thought away, but it’s lodged in my chest like an acid-tinged knife blade that’s eating away at my flesh.

I press my nose into his throat and breathe deeply of his familiar dark scent. Not even the smell of the hospital pushing down on us is strong enough to diminish the comfort of it. I take in a few deep breaths, and he chuckles.

"Are you sniffing me?"

"Your scent turns me on. It’s both reassuring and arousing," I admit.

He brings me in closer, and I melt into his side. I absorb the familiarity of his strength, the heat from his body surrounding me like a warm blanket. After what seems like hours of being stressed, this is the time for me to relax. But somehow, I can't. Somehow, I’m still on edge. A part of me wants more assurances that he’s going to be okay. That we’re going to be okay.

"You must be knackered." The rumbling of his voice across his chest is another sign that he’s alive.He’s fine. Really.I try to convince myself, but my stomach still hurts from the shock I experienced when I saw the blood spilling from the wound in his chest. That acidic bite in my chest widens to a full-fledged moat of concern.

"Ryot"—I look up at him—"are you really okay?"

He laughs. "This is nothing compared to some of the other wounds I’ve faced during tours."

I can’t bring myself to smile.

He notices my seriousness and wipes the lightness he was striving for from his features. "I’m a former Marine. I promise you, I have survived worse," he says in a soothing voice.

"Don’t dismiss my worries, please." I frown.

"I’m not, baby." He wraps his other arm around me, not caring that there’s an IV needle sticking out from the back of his palm. "I’m trying to demonstrate that this is part of the life I’ve lived, and it doesn’t faze me."

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