Page 21 of Strelitzias in Spring

“Twelve. This is…” She pauses, peering behind her to read the floor plaque. “This is the sixth floor. We have six floors to go. Should we go back to the elevator or…?” Her voice trails off, uncertainty threaded through her words, and I shake my head, rejecting her question.

“No, we’re using the stairs. That moron couldn’t decide if he wanted to be a creep to you or beg to suck my cock like an obsessed fan. I’m not in the mood to deal with idolatry tonight. Can you walk?” I don’t miss how she wobbles in her shoes or walks with a slow gait as though she can’t get her balance.

Red coats her cheeks, and she looks down at her feet. “My ankle hurts a little from when I fell. I don’t think I noticed it before because I had so much adrenaline, but now it’s a little sore. I’ll be fine, though.”

Following her gaze, I see that her right ankle and foot are slightly swollen. “I’m going to pick you up. It’ll be faster than watching you struggle down the hall and up the stairs.”

“No, you don’t need to—” Her words are cut off as I bend down to scoop her up and cradle her against my chest. She struggles in my hold. “Wolf, I can walk. Please put me down.”

“No.” My legs eat up the distance between the hallway and the stairwell door. Lifting my foot, I kick the door and stride up the stairs, practically running up until I reach the door that reads “Twelve.”

“Can you get the handle?” I ask Serena, bending my knees until she’s able to reach the knob. Once we’re through the doorway and stepping onto the stained carpet of the hallway, she speaks up.

“You can let me down now. My apartment is the first door on the left; it’s right here.” She motions with her hand. “Really, I’m fine. I promise.” I grunt in response, not fully believing her, but place her feet gently on the floor before stepping away.

I watch her closely as she hobbles to her door, limping slightly as though she’s trying to hide her pain. Without inserting a key, code, or card, she presses her door lever and walks inside.

“Did you just open your door without a key?” I call from behind her, following her into her small apartment and shutting the door behind me. I reach for the lock and twist it, making sure that there’s no chance of someone getting in from the outside.

She turns to look at me and furrows her brow. “You look angry.”

“Answer the fucking question, princess.”

She swallows, an audible gulp that lends sound to the silence of her apartment. “I want to say no, but that would be a lie. And I feel like lying to you would make you madder than the truth, so I’ll tell you the truth, even though you’ll be mad at that, too.”

I shake my head at her words. “Serena, can you just answer the question without adding more syllables than necessary?”

“Oh, right. Okay. Yes, but this apartment building is very safe. There have been no break-ins or robberies. It’s fine.”

I run a hand down my face, groaning at her response. “For someone who is supposed to be a fucking genius, you’re a goddamn idiot if you think leaving your apartment door open in the middle of the night is safe. What kind of bullshit is that?”

“I-I,” she starts, looking at the floor and stumbling over her words.

“No, save your excuses; it’s fucking stupid. Go wash that shit off your body. I’ll wait until you’re done, and then I’ll head out.”

She moves her gaze from the hardwood to my face, biting on her lower lip as she examines me. I feel my body stiffen at her expression, and I clench my jaw to keep the blood from rushing to my groin.

“Can I wash you?” she murmurs, and I cough, sure I didn’t hear her correctly.

“What?” I rasp out.

Her eyes widen, the golden irises glowing in the dull lamplight of the apartment. “Oh my God. I meant your clothes. Not you. I don’t want to wash you. I mean, if you needed help, I could.” She groans, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head as though to collect her thoughts. “I mean your sweatshirt. It’s covered in chocolate, and I feel bad because you went to that party to help me.” She gestures down her body to the syrup smeared all over her torso. Without my permission, my eyes trail over her.

Fucking hell.

“It’s fine, I’m going home.” The last goddamn thing I need is to be naked in Serena’s apartment while she’s wet.

“Please, I would feel so much better if you would let me take care of your clothes. Maybe you can shower first, and I’ll hand wash your things and then throw them in the dryer.” She stops to look at me with her big, expressive eyes, and I know at this moment that I’m a fucking goner. “Please, Wolf. Let me take care of it.”

Bringing my hand to my face, I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger and close my eyes. There is no question I should say no. I performed my service toward Celeste and made sure Serena left the party and got home safely; nothing and no one is forcing me to stay here.

So, despite the knowledge that I should abso-fucking-lutely go home and finish prepping for my clients this weekend, I find myself saying, “Okay. But I don’t need a shower; just give me a washcloth, and I’ll wash this shit from my face.”

Holding out her hand, Serena steps forward, so close that her cinnamon and vanilla smell invades my senses. “Give me your sweatshirt, and I’ll wash it.”

“Let me see to your ankle and battle scars first,” I respond, gesturing to her myriad of cuts, scrapes, bruises, and swollen body parts.

Her blush is instant, and she backs away as though I’m about to throw her over my shoulder and force first aid down her throat. “It’ll just take a minute, and then I’ll put some antiseptic on my elbows, but just—” She wriggles her fingers and jerks her arm in a “give me” motion. “Please, just give me your shirt.”

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