Page 118 of Beyond the Cottage

The cold peroxide brought goose flesh to his skin, puckering his nipples. She shifted as the wrong kind of tenderness flared up again.

It was only a medical procedure. She’d treated him shirtless that morning. But doing it in her home, on her couch, without a corpse cooling nearby landed differently.

“The stitches held,” she said. “I don’t see signs of infection.”

He twisted to look, and his hair feathered her cheek. Instead of pulling away, she got in closer.

“I can replace the sutures if you want.” Her breath grazed his shoulder.

“It’s fine for now. I’ll make sure to keep them clean.” Did his voice get deeper?

She brushed the cloth over an old scar, traced it around a solitary freckle. A smear of blood had found its way to his inner arm, and she stroked it away.

He grunted and crossed an ankle over his knee. It did little to hide what was happening between his legs. Fingertips frozen on his bicep, Gretta held her breath to keep from panting.

“Ignore it,” he rumbled. He hiked his ankle higher.

She’d have an easier time ignoring a meteor crashing through her window.

The agreement, Gretta.

The fucking agreement. Maybe she’d been hasty in setting those parameters?

She pulled back and tossed the cloth on the table. They’d set those parameters for areason. Nothing had actually changed.This version of their friendship was new and fragile, and she wouldn’t let her runaway hormones fuck everything up.

She dribbled iodine on a fresh cloth and clinically daubed his stitches. “You should clean this twice a day, and change the bandage each time. You can take the supplies with you.”

“Thank you, Gret.”

Nodding, she placed a folded square on his wound. He yawned deep, and his head settled on the backrest. Gretta unraveled white gauze from a roll and carefully wrapped his arm.

Finished, she got up and returned to the medicine chest in her bathroom. It held a laudanum tincture, but because of his aversion to alcohol, she didn’t think he’d want that. Oil of cloves wasn’t going to cut it. She settled on a bottle of mild pain killers.

Gretta came from the bathroom to find Ansel asleep again. He had his hands tucked in his armpits, and his neck was bent at an awkward angle. He lay still as a cadaver, barely breathing.

She tiptoed closer. Crouching at his feet, she lightly squeezed his knees. “Anse.”

He didn’t move. She crawled up beside him and cupped his cheek. “Anse.”

Nothing.

She moved his head to a more comfortable position. When his eyes flew open, she stroked his hair. “You fell asleep.”

He blinked fast, sitting straighter. “How long was I out?”

“A few minutes.”

Once his eyes focused, he slumped into the couch. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”

She continued petting him, and he leaned into it without seeming to realize. Her heart twisted worse than her stomach.

“I have an errand to run,” she said. “Do you want to nap here while I’m gone? I can walk you to the hotel after.”

He considered. Then he relaxed his arms and splayed his legs. “Maybe a quick one.”

With a final stroke of his hair, she collected a pillow and a glass of water. She made him swallow two pills and finish the water, then he let her lower him to the pillow. His eyes were shut before she finished tucking a quilt around him.

“Wake me when you get back,” he murmured.

---