Page 49 of Dark Shaman: The Lost Treasure
That was what they called it when his body decided to completely rewire itself at the cellular level.
He became aware that he was wearing a hospital gown, the kind that left his ass hanging out. His new tracksuit—the one he'd bought in January after his year-end resolution to get in shape and had never worn even once before—was nowhere to be seen. They'd probably peeled it off him. He had a vague memory of sweating through it completely before he and Magnus had started their wrestling match.
Wrestling.
Christ, who was he kidding? He'd been on the wrestling team in high school, sure, for exactly one semester before deciding that spending his afternoons getting slammed into mats by guys who ate protein powder for breakfast wasn't his idea of fun. Since then, the only things he'd wrestled with were stubborn chip bags that refused to tear at the designated spot and the occasional pickle jar that thought it was tougher than him.
The door opened with a soft whoosh, and Tim's brain short-circuited.
A woman walked in, and calling her beautiful would be like calling the Sistine Chapel a nice bit of ceiling art. She was tall, probably five nine or five ten, with the kind of figure that made men walk into lamp posts and then apologize to them. Her hair was a dark cascade that captured and reflected the harsh hospital lighting in ways that defied physics. But it was her eyes that did him in—impossibly blue, like someone had distilled the essence of every ocean and sky and concentrated it into two perfect orbs.
He must have died during the transition, and since there was no way he had earned a spot in heaven, this had to be hell. This stunning beauty was either a demon sent to torture him with unattainable perfection or the devil herself, taking a form designed to make him suffer maximum torment.
Either way, she could have his rotten soul.
Hell, he would hand it over to her gift-wrapped with a bow.
His breath hitched, which was a mistake because it reminded his body that breathing was actually quite difficult at the moment, but on the other hand, it made him question the assumption that he must be dead.
"Welcome back, Tim," she said, and her voice was like aged whiskey—smooth, with just enough burn to make him want more.
"Am I dead?" The words came out clearer than his earlier attempt at speech, though still rough around the edges.
She laughed, and the sound hit him like a kick to the gut. It was rich and sexy, completely lacking the polite, forced quality of people who laughed at things because they felt they should. This was real laughter, and it did things to him that were entirely inappropriate in his current state.
That became immediately, embarrassingly apparent as his body responded to her presence in the most primal way. The thin hospital blanket covering him did nothing to hide his predicament, and Tim felt heat rush to his face, which was something that hadn't happened to him in decades, or at least not because of a woman.
Sometimes tequila made him red in the face.
He tried to lift his arms to cover the tenting blanket, but they refused to cooperate. His muscles felt like overcooked spaghetti, useless. How the hell could he be too weak to move his damn arms but still capable of sporting an erection that he could hammer nails with?
Now he was convinced that he was in hell. This was his eternal punishment—to be paralyzed in bed while the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen witnessed his complete lack of control over his own body.
The beauty—demon, whatever—glanced at the tent with a knowing smile that somehow managed to be both professional and wickedly amused. "That's an excellent sign, Tim. It means that you're on your way to recovery."
He cleared his throat, trying desperately to think of anything other than how her scrubs managed to hint at the curves beneath without clinging to her body. "Are you the doctor?"
"No." She walked over to the monitors surrounding his bed, pulled out a small handheld tablet from her pocket, and began noting the readouts with quick, practiced motions. "I'm your nurse. Hildegard."
Hildegard. Of course, she had a name that sounded like it belonged to some ancient goddess of battle and beauty. Because why would the universe make this easy on him?
"A pleasure to meet you, Hildegard," he mumbled, trying to inject some of his usual sarcasm into the words but failing miserably. Hard to be cutting when you were horizontal and sporting a tent pole. "How long have I been here?"
She surprised him by sitting on the edge of his bed, entirely inappropriate and invading his personal space. She was so close that he could smell her perfume, something light and floral, and the scent of the female underneath. With her impossibly blue eyes fixed on his, Tim forgot how to breathe.
"You've been out since yesterday," she said, her tone conversational despite the intimacy of their positions. "Which is uncommon. Most Dormants wake up the morning after their induction, and the transition only starts a day or two later. Yours started right away, and you probably have a ways to go before you're out of the initial stage." She paused, glancing again at his persistent problem with a grin that was positively wicked. "But the fact that you're awake and sporting a boner while having a catheter stuck in your penis is an excellent sign. You will transition quickly."
Tim nearly choked.
She'd said it. She'd acknowledged both his erection and the fact that he had a tube shoved up his dick, and she'd done it with thesame casual tone someone might use to discuss the weather. He was simultaneously mortified and falling in love.
The woman was perfection personified.
Out of his league, but he could fantasize.
"That's good to hear," he managed, his voice only cracking slightly. "I don't want to transition quickly. I want to do it slowly and enjoy having you as my nurse for as long as I can drag it out. Not only are you stunningly beautiful, but you also have a mouth on you that matches mine. I love it."
Hildegard laughed again. "Falling for your nurse is so clichéd, Tim."
