Page 40 of Reaper
I manage to get turned around as Reaper lifts the lid, and the water I took a drink of reappears. He sits down behind me andholds my hair out of my face while I continue to dry heave for what feels like hours.
Losing the battle about a cold bath, he helps me undress and into the tub. My teeth chatter, and Reaper apologizes profusely for making me uncomfortable, but it doesn’t stop him from keeping me in there for at least ten minutes.
“You’re evil,” I accuse when he helps me dry off and get into comfy clothes.
“It was for your own good,” he reminds me. “You’ll thank me when that fever disappears, and the body aches stop.”
“We’ll see about that.”
He chuckles. “You’re starting to sound like Grump.”
“I’m sick. What’d you expect?”
“Honestly, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Just know that it doesn’t matter as long as you get better.”
Well, damn. Now he’s being all sweet.
“Sit here,” he instructs, pointing to the closed toilet lid. “I’m gonna get some fresh sheets on your bed.”
Really fucking sweet.
I groan, wanting nothing more than to climb under the covers but appreciating his help. He gets me tucked in in no time, telling me he’s going to run to the store for a few things and will check on me when he gets back.
I doze off again, waking sometime later to the smell of something delicious. Fully expecting my stomach to protest, I’m surprised when it growls instead. I throw off the covers and slowly stand, testing my ability to do so without assistance.
“That smells good,” I say sleepily when I step into the kitchen.
“Homemade chicken noodle soup,” Reaper says, his tone much harsher than it was earlier. “You want a bowl?”
“Yes, please.” I sit at the table, resting my head on my palm. “How long was I out?”
“Few hours.”
“Reaper?”
“What?”
“You can go if you have better things to do.”
He whirls around, almost spilling the soup he’s ladling into a bowl. “Why would I leave?”
I shrug half-heartedly. “You seem angry about something.”
Reaper sighs but remains quiet until he sets a steaming bowl of soup in front of me. “I am angry. Fuck, I saw red when I got back from the store.”
“Okay. Why?”
He points to a box that’s sitting on the counter that I somehow missed when I walked in the room.
“You had a package delivered.”
“And you opened it?” I ask, annoyed that he assumed that was okay.
“It wasn’t sealed.”
“Oh.”
“Eat, then we’ll talk.”
