Page 96 of Sheltering You

“I don’t think he’s up for it, but I bought him one for later.” She moved a little closer and lowered her voice. “He risked his life to save you, Rabie. You should be thankful.”

“He threw my stuff away.”

“Yes.” She nodded, keeping her expression solemn. “Are your things more important than his life? His safety?”

Rabie’s shoulders lifted and fell.

“You are tired. Please, put on some clothes, eat your cake, and then brush your teeth.” She stepped into the steamy bathroom, grabbed a bath towel, and backed out again. “And then we sleep, okay?”

Rabie took the clothes she’d bought into the bathroom and closed the door.

Jasmine moved to the bed opposite Derrick and opened all the packages she’d bought.

His skin was pale as paper, his eyes bloodshot as he watched her warily.

“Take off your sweatshirt, please.”

“You’re finally coming around to my way of thinking.”

She tipped her head to one side. What did he mean?

“Trying to have your way with me?” His lips quirked at the corners. “Very unseemly.”

Her cheeks warmed. He was teasing her. She lifted the brown bottle. “This will sting. How much it will sting”—she lifted her eyebrows—“this will depend on you.”

He winced. “I take it all back.” He pushed himself into a sitting position and worked his shirt up, his face contorting in pain.

She held the sleeve so he could pull his arm free, then tugged it over his head.

“Not that I mind you undressing me,” he said, “but this isn’t how I imagined this would go.”

She would ignore his remarks. Perhaps they were his way of dealing with the pain. And she didn’t want to think about Derrick imagining…anything. Because his shirt was off now, and his chest drew her gaze. Smooth except a little hair that crawled up from his pajama pants toward his belly button. She’d known he was strong, but she hadn’t imagined such defined muscles.

His body was…perfect.

Jasmine forced her gaze away, turning on the bedside lamps. She spread the bath towel on the bed behind him. “Lie down and face away, please.”

He did, lifting his arm over his head so she could access the wound.

His hair fell toward the bed, exposing his neck, his ear. His skin was light compared to hers, stretching tight over muscles that rippled as he held himself steady.

She was thankful he was facing away from her and didn’t see her staring. It was all she could do to keep herself from reaching out and running her fingertips between his shoulder blades.

The only man she’d ever seen without his shirt on was her husband—wrinkled and hairy and pudgy. How were Khalid and Derrick even the same species?

Derrick was beautiful inside and out.

“Is it that bad?” His voice was low and rumbling.

“No. It’s…” She shook herself and swallowed. The gash was about ten centimeters long and one centimeter wide, running from his front to his back. It was ugly and red and still seeping blood. “You washed it?”

“Yes, Nurse Ratched. I rinsed it, just like you said.”

“Who is this Ratched?” Jasmine got the gauze and tape ready, then opened the brown bottle.

“She’s from a movie.”

“She is a good nurse?”