Page 12 of The Stolen Princess
Nothing kills a fantasy like a gunshot wound.
Myka rummaged through the vials and bottles of medicine. There were so many, and none of them were labeled. The last time Myka had been there, she’d seen Joett use a pink salve on Rommel’s hand when he had cut himself in the garden. It was in a flat, round container with a blue lid. She would recognize it if she saw it again.
“You have no clue what you’re doing, do you?” he asked behind her.
She whipped her head around, glaring at him. First, he’d insinuated that she didn’t know how to handle a gun, and now he challenged her knowledge of medicine. As a princess, she wasn’t used to people questioning her competence. “Careful,” she said. “Last time you told me I didn’t know what I was doing, I shot you.”
“Does that mean you’re going to poison me now?”
Myka shrugged with a wry smile. “Maybe.” She turned back around, finding the dish with the blue lid, and opened it up. The pungent smell and pinkish hue gave her the confidence she needed.
“Okay, if you’re such an expert ateverything,then what does that do?” he asked, pointing to a vial on the shelf with red liquid in it.
Was he going to playthatgame? Myka could play let’s-make-something-up all day long if she needed to.
“Uh...that right there is for…” She had to choose her words carefully. She couldn’t tell him it was for pain, or he might try to ingest it, and what if it was poisonous? She might have shot him, but she wasn’t trying to kill him. “Hemorrhoids,” she answered plainly.
He raised his eyebrows in obvious surprise. “Hemorrhoids?”
At that moment, she learned a valuable lesson. Never say the first thing that comes to your mind, but her answer was already out there. She had to sell it now.
“Yes, hemorrhoids,” she snapped. “You know the swollen veins in the…” Drake’s amused expression paused her explanation, and she cleared her throat. “Never mind. I’m sure you get the point.”
His lips jerked, and his eyes shifted to a long skinny tube with a thick creamy liquid inside. “What about that one?”
Myka scanned the bottle. “Breast milk.”
“And that one?” He gestured to the next jar, eyes dancing.
Myka scratched her neck behind her ear to buy herself some time. “That,” she pointed at the flask, “is good for excessive sweating. Just dab a little under your armpits.” She raised her arm, giving him a very unnecessary perspiration demonstration.
His eyebrow raised as he pointed to the last bottle on the shelf. “And that one?”
“It treats toe fungus,” she replied flatly, doing a very impressive job of keeping a straight face.
“I’d hate to be the person who needs all of those medicines.”
“Yes, it would be very tragic.”
Drake’s lips loosened into a full-on smile, and man, could his smile pack a punch. Straight, white teeth, soft lips, glowing brown eyes—Mr. Gunshot Wound was becoming dreamier by the second. Maybe Myka should purposely shoot men more often.
She walked toward him, dipping her finger into the salve. “This might sting a little. Actually,” she shrugged, “I don’t know if it will sting. That’s just what everybody says when they're treating wounds.”
He smiled again, squinting his brown eyes as he examined her. His gaze made Myka nervous but also excited, like he might be enjoying her company.
She spread the cream over the gash where the bullet had nicked the side of his arm. From the corner of her eye, she peeked at him. Drake’s strong jaw and brown eyes were inches from her face, and all of a sudden, this typical help-your-neighbor-out sort of thing started to feel not so typical. Myka’s heart began tumbling over each beat, and she had to look away. She focused on his arm like any good nurse would do. Myka had never seen a more manly arm in her entire life. His forearm was all tanned skin and muscle and prominent veins that ran up to his biceps. She wanted to take a peek at his bare chest, but it would be too obvious if her eyes dropped. She kept her gaze focused on applying the salve to the wound, hoping her peripheral vision would step in and give her something good to remember him by.
“Sorry. Does this make you uncomfortable?” he asked.
“That you don’t have a shirt on?” Myka shrugged. “I’ve seen a naked man before.”
Notnaked.
Why did she saynaked?
That single word made this moment a thousand times more awkward.
She’d never seen an actual naked man—just men with their shirts off.
