Page 148 of Fury In Death
Roarke slid in beside her, and the cat did the same. Rather than holding her close, Roarke just took her hand in his.
“Lights out,” he ordered.
Chapter Twenty-One
Eve woke stiff, sore, and irritated. Roarke, already sitting on the side of the bed, held out one hand with two blockers. The other held coffee.
“Blockers first, then coffee.”
“I really want to take this brace off. The shoulder feels better.”
“You’re lying, as you’d be stiff as any board and sore with it. But we’ll take a look at your shoulder and the rest of you with the wanding.”
“Don’t you get tired of playing Nurse Sexy?”
“More than I can say, and if only it were playing.” He drew the sleep shirt up and away.
“I want that coffee.”
He handed it to her while he removed the brace. “Swelling’s down more than a bit, and the bruising’s better.”
She couldn’t quite get a good look. “Are you lying now?”
“You’ll see for yourself I’m not, no, after the wanding.”
As before, Galahad sat, watched.
“You won’t want it, but you’ll need the brace another eighteen hours. Twenty-four would be better.”
“According to Summerset.”
“According to the medic you chose rather than a doctor or hospital, so back on it’ll need to go. If you’re wanting a shower, don’t put the jets on full as you usually do.”
When he’d finished wanding her face, she gave in, rested her forehead to his. “Thanks.”
“Blockers kicking in, are they?”
“Maybe. Either way you’re the last one I should get bitchy with. I want the shower. Jets half power.”
“To save you the effort and the time, why don’t I get your clothes this morning?” He smiled at her narrowed look. “I perfectly understand you’ll take Banner in the box, and you have the media. So kick-ass cop is the guideline.”
“Okay, but I have the right to object.”
“As always. How’s the jaw?”
She moved it side to side. Cautiously. “Better. No lie.”
“Good. Have your shower.”
She wanted one for the ritual, and the soothing, but first braced herself for another full-length mirror check.
The sick yellow mixed in with the black-and-blue meant healing was happening. Ribs, shoulder, the worst of it. Facial swelling? Definitely down. Her nose looked almost normal. Normal-ish? Bruised but barely swollen. Right cheek, still blooming. Two shiners, yes, but some of that sick yellow in there, too.
She got her shower, embracing the gentle pulse of half-power jets. By the time she eased into a robe, she decided:
Not as stiff, not as sore, and not nearly as irritated.
Satisfied, she stepped out to find Roarke—casual navy sweater, stone-gray jeans—on the sofa with the cat. Domed plates held whatever breakfast he’d decided her healing jaw could manage.
