Page 12 of Striker
He chuckled. “All right. Just holler if you need help.”
She placed her hands on the wall and shuffled toward the tub. “I’ve got it. Thanks.”
Christ. Now he had to leave her. He glanced at the door, then back at the tub. If she fell, he’d be responsible. But he couldn’t exactly force her to let him stay. That’d be awkward.
He moved across the tight space, then stepped out of the room, closing the door softly. He waited just outside the bathroom until he heard the water shut off. She had to be in by now.
He rubbed his hand over his face. Hell, what a night. He looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost 2:00 a.m. He removed all his gear and placed it on the chair he’d been sitting on. Then he took out everything he’d need for the IV and set it up near the bed.
The only bed in the room.
Chapter
Four
Molly sat in the narrow, shallow tub with her knees pulled into her chest. The water rose just past her hips. She’d forgotten about her bandaged wrist, which forced her to keep her right hand propped out of the water while she awkwardly scrubbed with her left.
Washing her hair would be impossible.
Tears stung her eyes. All she wanted was to feel clean. As if a decent bath will wash away the horrors of the last couple of weeks, she thought, rolling her eyes at herself. But she couldn’t stomach the idea of crawling into bed as dirty as she’d been before getting in the tub.
She couldn’t even lie in the tub to wash her hair—she was weak enough to pass out at any minute.
Letting out a growl, she kicked the side of the tub. Her heel throbbed, triggering instant regret. Tears of frustration fell, and she swiped her cheeks with the back of her wet hand. Her head pounded and the nausea returned, bringing on another sob.
“Molly, you all right?” The bathroom door cracked open an inch.
“Um, I’m fine,” she said hurriedly, too full of anger and self-pity to pretend it was true.
“You’ve been in there a long time. Can I come in?”
Unease spiraled inside her. Atlas had been kind. Considerate. Still, she wasn’t exactly into revealing her naked body to him, especially when she looked like a malnourished dog.
“I promise not to look. I just want to make sure you’re not gonna pass out.”
She drew her knees in closer to her chest, so he couldn’t see her breasts. “Come in,” she squeaked.
He pushed open the door and paused at the threshold. His earnest, worried eyes locked on her face as if she were next up in his target practice. He frowned and came closer. “You’re crying.”
She gave a rough laugh. “No, it’s just . . . I’m frustrated.”
He knelt next to the tub. His gaze never strayed from her face. He was so large, his shoulders wide enough to block her view of the door and half the bathroom, yet she didn’t feel trapped. “You’re exhausted, honey.”
Honey? Her throat thickened. There was nothing suggestive behind the endearment. Just unfiltered kindness.
“I forgot to waterproof your wrist. Is that what the problem is? Can’t wash properly?”
She blinked, then nodded. God, it was a luxury to not have to speak. To have him know what was wrong.
“How about I wash your hair?”
A lump formed in her throat. “Um . . .”
“You can stay just like that. I’ll do all the work. Is that okay?”
She studied the way his stern brow sloped to the bridge of his nose. Dark stubble speckled his upper lip and spread to the edge of his jaw. She wanted to lean into him. To let him carry her. To take over.
Because for once, she’d be in good hands.
