Page 24 of Strelitzias in Spring

His gaze cuts to me, and he offers a wry smile. “I rearranged your sink cabinet. Your shit pissed me off, and I couldn’t leave it like that.”

“Wh-what?” I sputter with a laugh. “You reorganized my bathroom?”

“That’s what I said.” He turns his attention back to the medical supplies and grabs a container of cotton pads. “Where would I find a small bowl?”

I point toward the sink. “The cabinet next to the sink has all my bowls and dishes. It’s better organized, I promise,” I tease. He grunts in response and moves in the direction I indicated. Turning on the faucet, he washes his hands before he opens my cabinet and grabs one of my cereal bowls. He quickly fills it with warm water and returns to my side.

He grabs a small bottle from his lineup, and I peer over my shoulder, careful not to turn my torso, to inspect his next steps. He must sense my interest because he holds up the container in his hand so that I can read the label of a brand I don’t recognize.

“What’s that?”

“A gentle soap. It’s the best to clean lacerations with.” He squirts the soap into the bowl and mixes it with a swirl of the bowl. “Stay still, I’m going to clean these cuts, and I don’t want your bony ass elbow getting me in the face.”

He makes quick work of cleaning out the wound, his fingers gentle as they wash out the dirt and grime that remained even after my shower. He’s soon finished and applying a topical ointment to my scrapes.

“Alright, I’m going to need to touch your back.” I swallow, shivering slightly at the thought of his touch over the expanse of my skin. For Wolf, I know that he’s seen and felt plenty of naked body parts before as a result of his career, but it still makes tingles race up my spine.

Not in dread, though it should be, but in excitement.

“Wait,” he cuts in as soon as I lean forward to give him better access. “Go lie down on the couch, you’re shivering. I should have realized you were cold; I’m sorry. Give me a minute to turn around.” I shake my head but don’t bother correcting him that I’m shivering in anticipation, not because I’m cold. “Okay, you can go to the couch now.”

I spin around, taking in his broad form and the tattoos that snake down from his neck to his fingertips like armor. I may have googled pictures of Wolf and videos of previous matches, so I know that eighty percent of his body is covered in detailed artwork. The black and gray pieces, mostly animal and hunter-themed, look like they’re three-dimensional and about to leap from his skin. In one video, the huge wolf head on his back has eyes so vibrant, so well-done, that it looked like it was watching you as he moved through the cage. I move my eyes back up to his neck, taking in the buzzed hair that was significantly longer two months ago. My hands flex with thoughts of running my fingers over his scalp and the faint lines I see on the back of his skull. I squint, trying to make out the circular triangle design, but can’t figure out what it is.

“You done staring at me?” I jolt in surprise, meeting his gaze in the hall mirror that hangs across from where we stand. From this vantage point, he can see everything: my breasts, naked stomach, and the attention I paid to his body. I flush, bringing up my hands to cover myself. “It’s a Triquetra.”

I draw my brows together, unsure of what he’s talking about. “What?”

“The symbol on the back of my head that you were studying. It’s a Triquetra, or Trinity Knot, a Scottish symbol for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”

“Are you religious?” I ask, as though I’m not standing in front of him half-naked and covering my nipples with a dainty forearm.

“Not particularly, but I’m not dead yet, even though I risk my life inside a cage and get beat up by men my size or larger. So, someone’s got to be looking out for me. Now, get on the couch so I can tend to your back.” I risk a glance back up at his face, only to see his eyes squeezed shut and his jaw clenched.

“Right, sorry.” I hurry to the couch and fling my body down, wincing at the graze on my jaw. I am going to have a nasty bruise in a few days, there is no doubt about that. “Okay, I’m decent.”

Wolf mumbles, and I hear something that sounds suspiciously like “Not likely” come from his direction. Turning my head, I rest it so that I’m looking out toward my living room and can see Wolf’s progress as he stalks to the kitchen island to grab supplies. Once he has everything he needs, he comes to my side and kneels on the floor beside me.

Just like before, Wolf narrates what his process is. “I’m going to clean the area with the soap and warm water mixture, and then I’ll apply a coat of A&D ointment.”

I look up at him, frowning. “I don’t have A&D.”

“I ordered it.” Wolf dips a clean cotton pad into the water and begins dabbing my skin, gently cleansing the irritated flesh on my back. I squirm under his ministrations, unable to stay still as he takes care of me.

“Stop moving, Serena,” Wolf admonishes beside me as he grabs a paper towel and blots the water from my skin. I don’t follow his command, instead moving more under his attention thanks to the sensitive areas of my body. “For fuck’s sake, Serena, stay still.”

“I can’t; I’m ticklish,” I rasp, breathing in a deep pull of air.

He stills, his hand on my lower back as he absorbs my words. “That so, princess?” His voice is deeper, more sensual than before, and I look up, watching his green eyes as they rake over my back. He drops the paper towel on the couch and brings his hand back to my skin, grazing it with the tips of his fingers. Unlike his previous clinical touches, this feels like more: more intimate, more personal, more important, and my mouth grows dry.

His fingers dance over the uninfected parts of my back as though he’s trying to determine the spots that make me squirm in discomfort and writhe in pleasure. He’s so focused that his eyes narrow into slits, and his mouth pops open, his tongue peeking out from his concentration. His fingers browse a sensitive spot, and I can’t help the gasp that breaks from my mouth.

“Wolf,” I whisper and start to turn to face him. My voice breaks Wolf of whatever spell he was under, and he bolts upright, banging into my ottoman before grabbing the decorative throw blanket and tossing it over my body. Before I can even ask if he’s okay, he’s speed walking into my kitchen and grabbing his still-damp sweatshirt and jacket.

“Your clothes are still wet; you’ll catch a cold if you put them on and then ride home like that,” I say, coming behind him while clutching the throw blanket over my body like a shawl.

“I’ve had worse,” he grunts out beneath the fabric. Once his face breaks free, I can see the panic stamped across his features. I don’t bother saying another word, knowing that any additional protests will come off as begging, and I refuse to put myself in that position again tonight. It’s bad enough that I had to petition him to let me wash his clothes; I won’t force him to stay in my home if he’s desperate to run out.

Following him to the front door, I huddle into my blanket and jump back when his voice fills the apartment. “Do not come to the door without a shirt on, for fuck’s sake. Who the hell knows who will be outside your door.”

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