Page 146 of Severed Heart
It’s then that his words from days ago still my itching, eager fingers. His declaration of what love remains for me is limited to that of friends—something I will have to accept as much as it pains me. But for any time with him, I will force myself to try to understand. His declaration that he needed me would have to hold me. His healing will be my priority, as he has made mine his. My screaming bladder doesn’t allow me to contemplate anything further as it reminds me of why I woke.
It’s as I come further to consciousness that I remember his confession and barely manage to keep myself still as the shock again filters in.
He killed Alain.
Huntedhim—something I can’t fathom processing now. So, I don’t, and instead, concentrate on soaking in as much of my soldier as I can as he sleeps. Even as my bladder demands relief, I sweep him thoroughly, my eyes catching on the tattoo etched into his heavily defined pectoral—a tattoo I first caught a glimpse of when he lifted his shirt to wipe his brow while cleaning my kitchen. One I had assumed was Marine in nature, but it does not look so much now upon closer inspection. Circular in shape, a very menacing-looking skull with only the top jaw lies atop crossbones, surrounded by a perfectly symmetrical cross, but not quite a cross. All four extensions are the same length, the edges of each ending in a T-shape—the top of the skull surrounded by a half circle made up of six stars. The lower part of the half-circle consisting of three sets of Roman numerals. The more I examine it, the more I realize nothing about this tattoo looks Marine.
Where has my soldier been? As if sensing my question, he stirs.
“Morning, General,” he rumbles in a sleep-filled voice before opening his gorgeous brown eyes, “what do you need?”
“I have to pee,” I admit with a wince. “Very badly.”
“Okay, let’s go,” he says, standing bedside within a blink. The act of simply standing daunts me, hair damp and clumped in sweaty heaps. In short, I feel disgusting. Inside just as bad. Temporarily ignoring the strange feeling of sobriety that I haven’t experienced fully in years, the lingering sedatives are not enough to hold my building insecurity as I voice my next concern.
“Soldier, I need to pee andshower.”
He nods, brows drawing as I give him wide eyes. “So, can we maybe call the nurse back?”
“I’m your nurse,” he declares, and I give him a pleading look.
“What? You prefer blondes?” He winks, and I grimace in return.
“I prefer a woman,” I tell him honestly. “I don’t want you to see me—”
“Pee?” he spouts through thick lips. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
“I can call her back, but I don’t want to. Can we try it my way?” He gives me stupid adorable puppy eyes with his request, his lashes so damned long it enhances his beg. “Just for today?”
Bladder screaming, I have no choice but to nod. In an instant, he sweeps me into his arms, and I yelp in surprise before he deposits both me and my IV in front of the toilet with ease before closing the door behind him. I stand stunned at the efficiency with which he did it as my bladder says time’s up. Just as I go to lower my pajama pants, the door pops open, and I jerk back as his hand appears, blindly searching for the faucet before he twists the knob on the sink so that the water flows as he speaks. “In case you get stage fright and need some help finding your flow.”
Laughter erupts from me before the door closes again—crazy, stupid, beautiful boy, but not a boy. Surprising myself, I manage to do my business easily and flush the toilet. Just after, Tyler knocks twice before popping open the door as I pull up my pants. “No, no, I’m going to shower now.”
“Delphine, you’re too weak to do it alone.”
“I’m not,” I lie.
“Liar,” he spouts, opening the door a little wider, his eyes holding mine in a demand to help. The look inside them is more intent and ... indifferent? Maybe a look I deserve, but one that stings. Familiar guilt starts to eat at me as he steps in to stand in front of me.
“There’s got to be a way,alone,” I say, my brain proving useless as I try to find a solution and come up empty.
“Yeah, it’s called I’ve beeninsideyou and licked every inch of your body.” He shrugs. “So, since when did you become a French monk?”
My eyes bulge at his candor. “This is—”
“You’re sick. You’re too thin. You’re coming down from twenty years of alcoholism. You’re embarrassed. I get it, and I can admit I’m scared of fucking this up, so ... let’s just behuman and honestabout it, all right?”
His blunt delivery puts me somewhat at ease, and I nod.
“I’m going to take your pants and panties down,” he relays.
“I can take my pants—”
He keeps his gaze on mine and slides my pants and panties down, and I instantly cover my naked crotch with my hand as my neck heats. “God, I know I stink.”
“You do,” he chuckles. “Actually, you reek.”
