Page 7 of Crown of Thorns
“Thanks.”
“Unless you want me to scrub your back…” He tempts me with a smile on his lips, but he must recognize that I’m not ready for intimacy.
I don’t know that I’ll ever be ready again. Will he push me? Punish me if I never let him close again? I’ll have to leave before I can test the theory. I never would have thought that my Rhys would do something like that but then again, he was never mine. I was just someone he chose from a dossier.
I’ll never know why my picture and bio called to him and his father over the others. Maybe it was because there was no doubt that I was meek and shy… A pushover who was destined to fall for a little romance and wooing. Now I’ll have to be the hero of my over story even if I don’t know how.
“Don’t push your luck,” I reply.
He chuckles. The sound is deep and masculine and sends little shock currents down my spine. My body still wants him, my brain knows that he’s bad for me. Is this what it feels like to eat the blowfish sushi knowing it could kill you if prepared wrong?
“It really will be all right,” he says before closing the door behind him.
I nod and play along, needing him out so I can use the bathroom and shower.
Thank God. I’m finally alone.
I turn on the small shower and let it heat up while I strip out of my hospital gown that, quite honestly, stinks. I still fold it up and place it on the counter. The nurses here aren’t my maids and I’m thankful that they’ve kept me alive, even if I still find myself trappedin this gilded cage.
I use the restroom and then jump in the shower. I wash my hair twice and scrub my body until it’s pink. There are still little bits of dried glue from the tape and whatnot, but I’m not going to worry about it too much. I have to put it out of my mind for survival. When I’m done, I shut off the taps and wrap a towel around my body after wringing the water from my long hair.
And then it dawns on me that I don’t have any clothes.
I just can’t catch a break.
Or maybe I can because I spy a new toothbrush next to the sink and I snatch it up like it’s the key to heaven and rip the plastic wrapper off. I spread the accompanying toothpaste on it and scrub it around my mouth, groaning in relief as I do. I spit and rinse and then decide it’s probably time to face the music.
I pull open the door and step into the room to find Rhys arguing with Maeve about what I should wear to leave the hospital. Personally, I want a pair of leggings and a baggy sweatshirt. Apparently, that’s not in the cards.
I let out a sigh. “Hi Maeve.”
“Hello Miss,” she says as she bobs a small curtsey. It seems silly for her to do so while I’m basically naked. “We’ll get you squared away and then you can go home and rest.”
“Thank you.” I smile even though her idea of what my home is and mine are not the same. Oh, how I wishI was back in the states with my uncles. Even if they aren’t really my uncles, I love Fran and Paul and I miss them.
“What would you like to wear?” she asks me.
“Jeans?”
Maeve looks at me with owl eyes for a second before stumbling over her words. “I… umm… didn’t bring any.”
“Oh. Okay.” Of course she didn’t. And here I was thinking pajamas or leggings would be the best bet since I’m covered in bruises and scrapes like I was just in a massive car crash. Ugh, I shouldn’t be crass when someone died because of me. I have to remember that at all times. I’m responsible for someone’s death because I unwillingly played a role in this game of thrones.
“How about a casual coat dress?” she asks.
“Umm… sure.” Since I’m standing here, covering my delicate bits with a hospital towel, I’ll take whatever she gives me so that I can get out of here. Next step, find my way back to the U.S.
“I did bring boots and some leggings,” she says.
I smile a real smile for the first time in what feels like ages.
“Oh, thank you, Maeve!” I cry. At least I’ll be warm and snug and the black and blue spots on my legs won’t be visible to anyone who might see me.
“Now, let’s get your hair and face fixed up and you’ll be right as rain before you know it,” she says. “Sit down and let’s sort you out.”
I sit and she combs and dries my hair like one would a child. I vaguely remember my mother caring for me the same way when my parents were home, but more often than not, she and my father were off on their adventures around the world. She pulls half of my hair back from my face but lets the rest fall around my shoulders in a dark curtain. She sweeps just enough makeup on my face that I don’t look like a zombie anymore and the bruises are mostly covered, showing just enough to confirm that I was in a tragic accident but that I’m alive and well.
“There,” she says sweetly when she’s done. “Much better. Now let’s get you dressed.”
