“Damien.” My voice is firm.
That has him raising a brow. “Yes, mon—”
“This isn’t going to work if you do this.”
He stills, watching me, curiously, as if he’s fascinated by the stern expression on my face.
I’m no longer the woman he’s been flirting with and toying with. My nurse persona is back on and Nurse Alex doesn’t allow her patients to walk all over her. He’s paying me to help him recover and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t receive the best care I can give him. After all, he’s paying me more than I deserve.
“You can’t eat all this.” I nudge his plate away. “You were lucky that the knife missed anything important. Otherwise I’d be dragging your ass to the hospital even if I had to knock you out to do so. But for the next few days, you need to be on a liquid diet, no solids. We’ll get you on solids in three days if you’re recovering well. Also, you have to lay in bed. No more walking around. Otherwise I will tie you to the bed. You can take my room for the week.”
My instructions are clipped and concise and I see the way he’s watching me and I try not to let it unnerve me.
“Are those your orders, Nurse?” he asks me softly.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re not dying on my watch so don’t even think of trying to act cute. I don’t care how many times you’ve been stabbed in the past”—from the looks of the scars on his body, there have been plenty such incidents—“And I don’t care how you recovered from those. But if you’re under my roof, you listen to what I tell you to do.”
There’s a heavy silence following my declaration and I wonder if I’ve finally pissed him off and he’s going to leave. Then he chuckles. “Bossy little thing, aren’t you, mon petite ange?”
I make a mental note to look up all these nicknames that he’s been keep calling me.
“You’re giving me a ridiculous amount of money,” I say, trying to keep my tone curt. “If I didn’t need it so—The point is, that if you want to recover in a week, you need to let me look after you and that means you eat what I tell you to eat and move when I tell you to move.”
His lips are curled in that lazy smirk of his and I desperately wish I could develop some sort of immunity to it, because it’s putting all sorts of wicked ideas in my head and they remind me of his dark promises from last night.
‘And you’ll be so good for me, won’t you?’
My insides tighten at the memory of his purred words. I spent half the night imagining myself pleas—
Immediately I shake off the thought. “It’s better if you sleep on the bed than the couch. I’ll get some medicines for you. Thankfully, the knife went through flesh rather than any organ which is why you didn’t bleed to death.” I pause then, looking a little reluctant. He’s clearly running from somebody. “If—Do you want to talk to the police?”
He studies me. “No.” I can see from the look in his eyes, even as he sits so relaxed, he’s in unbearable pain and I don’t understand why he’s pushing himself like this. But I don’t get a chance to say anything before he straightens up, slowly, his legs touching mine. “No police. But in return for listening to you, I will want a favor in return.”
I blink at him, uneasily. “I’m not—I’m not shooting anybody.”
His eyes widen slightly as if taken aback by my declaration. “Shoot—What?” Then he chuckles in understanding. “You misunderstand. I want you to pass along a message to Braden.”
“A message?” I repeat, slowly.
He looks amused by how skeptical I sound. “Yes, a small message. I’ll write it out for you. You just hand it to him.”
“Okay,” I say, slowly.
“And, I might have a visitor in the afternoon.”
A visitor?
I purse my lips. “You’re not part of some street gang, are you? Because I don’t want to be stabbed or shot.”
He grins suddenly. “Not at all, mon chéri.”
“Will I get in trouble for letting you stay here?” I ask, seriously. Money or not, I really don’t think I should be throwing my life away.
The laughter in his eyes dies and is replaced by a serious look and he’s reaching out, his large hand cupping my face. “I won’t let you get hurt, mon petit poussin. You saved my life. I always repay my debts.”
That’s not what I was asking, but okay. It will have to do for now.
His hand is rough and it sends delicious tingles down my spine and it takes me a minute to push it away. He just smirks.
“You—” I clear my throat. “I have to go to work in three hours. I’ll make you some broth and Jello.”
“And coffee.”
I raise a brow. “You shouldn’t—”
“You said it’s only a flesh wound,” he responds cheekily.
I sigh. “Fine. But after you eat something, I want you to lie down and—”
“Do you have a laptop?”
“Can you stop interrupting me for like five seconds?” I burst out, annoyed, and he lifts his brow. I blush at the reprimand in his eyes and mutter, “I mean—Yes, I have a laptop.”
There’s a darkness in his eyes that is really addictive and I don’t know why I’m so intrigued by it.
I walk over to the almost ancient laptop and bring it to him. “It’s, um, a bit slow.”
He studies the laptop with a disdainful expression in his eyes but he doesn’t utter a protest and accepts it. I leave my breakfast untouched, that look in his eyes leaving a bitter taste in my mouth, my hunger evaporating.
As I take out some raw frozen chicken wings that I’d picked up on sale a few weeks ago, and start preparing the broth, I feel ashamed of myself for how it eats at me every time evidence of my hard times are presented before him. I know I should be grateful that I have a roof over my head and at least one meal a day to eat, but the human in me can’t help but feel the sharp sting of humiliation. I glance at the eggs in the fridge, at the bacon so carelessly tossed inside and I feel worse.
I prepare him a light breakfast that will be easy on his stomach and then some Jello to offset the broth. And at his request, I prepare a coffee, making sure to overdose it with milk.
I ignore the way he casts a dismayed look at the breakfast I put in front of him and I deliberately remove his plate of eggs and bacon.
“Nothing fried,” I tell him, as I cover the plate and tuck it into the fridge. “You’ll thank me for it, later.”
He looks tired and I know he’s over exerted himself far more than he should have.
“Let me check your bandages first,” I say and bring over the first aid kit.
He casts off his sweater, obligingly, and I struggle to keep my gaze completely professional. My brow wrinkles into a frown as I stare at the carelessly tied bandage on his stomach.
“Did you reapply it?”
He doesn’t look perturbed, leaning against the back of the couch, watching me, his tone casual. “It started bleeding again.”
I have the urge to hit him upside the head, and my words are a growl. “Of course it will bleed if you move around so damn much. I told you to stay still last night, didn’t I?”