Page 38 of Devious Secrets

“No, my room. Put me in my room. And I don’t need a doctor.”

I tighten my hold on her.

“Don’t argue, Megan. Not now. Not when you’ve made me angry again.”

“How’d I do that?” she questions as I start up the stairs. “I did what you said. I… you know.”

I let myself take a glance at her.

The blush on her cheeks makes me want to take her all over again.

“You didn’t tell me you were hurt.” I kick the door to my room open and head to the adjoining bathroom.

“Would you have not done what you did?”

I gently put her on the bathroom counter. Now in the well-lit room, I see the damage this woman did to herself.

Aside from the scratch on her cheek and the ankle she may have broken, her legs are scratched to hell. And she’s filthy.

I ignore her question, not sure I have the answer she wants to hear. Would it have stopped me from turning her over that log and taking what I’ve wanted to take since I saw her standing in the office at Obsidian?

I don’t know.

“Stay here.” I point my finger at her and wait for a small nod from her before I step away and gather a few washcloths and supplies to clean her cuts.

“I can do this.” She reaches for the washcloth as I turn on the water in the sink.

“No.” Once the water is warm enough, I soak the washcloth and grab the antibacterial soap.

“It’s just a few scrapes,” she says, bending over to look at her legs, stretching them out so she can get a better look.

“Hmm.” Standing in front of her, I take hold of her left foot and press it against my hip. Her knees took most of the damage. Carefully, I brush away all the little bits of twigs and dead leaves that cling to her skin.

Most of the scratches are superficial, but there’s one gash with debris lodged in it. Reaching over to the counter where I put my supplies, I grab the pair of tweezers.

She stiffens.

“Maybe you should let the doctor do this?” She goes to move her leg away, but I merely place my hand over her knee.

“He’s not touching you other than to look at your ankle.” This wound is just above her knee, dangerously close to her thigh. Unless this thing needs stitches, he’s not touching her here.

“Why?” She bumps into my head as she bends over again to watch me pluck out the tiny pieces of branch.

I look up at her. “Because.” Gently, I nudge her head away. “You’re blocking my light.”

“Oh.” She leans back.

The silence stretches while I finish cleaning out the debris.

“Did you find out what happened to that guy?” she asks after I drop the tweezers back onto the countertop and reach for the peroxide.

“Dexter? He’s dead.” The peroxide bubbles over the cut. She hisses, grabbing on to my shoulder and squeezing.

“Shit! That hurts!” She tries to pull her leg away, but I hold firm. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“My grandmother used to clean my cuts like this when I was a little boy. It stings, but it works.” Grabbing one of the bandages, I carefully place it over the cut.

“I can’t imagine you being a little boy,” she says.

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