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Miri
I’ve been hit by a truck. That must be what happened, because every single muscle in my body hurts. Do my ears have muscles because even the lobes hurt. I didn’t know that was possible. I open my eyes with a long groan. My eyelids hurt, too.
The room is dark and... where the hell am I? My first instinct is to sit up, but that’s not happening right now, so I slowly take stock. I’m in a bed, the walls are wood like the inside of a log cabin. There’s a delicious heat pressed against my side, and the scent of rain and ocean surrounds me.
Davis?
I wrack my brain, trying to figure out the last thing I can remember. Helping with Rhys’s tent at the Plunge, drooling over Davis’s shirtless body, Anthony being a jagoff and... that’s it.
I turn my head, wincing at the pain in my neck, then snort. I’m a pain in my own neck.
“Are you laughing at a joke you’re thinking in your head?” Davis’s voice is muffled beside me, his face smushed into a pillow. Swirls of giddy happiness leap in my stomach and I swear, even that hurts. But who cares? Davis is in bed next to me.
Did we do it and I don’t remember? No, not possible. I’d never forget that. Although I am sore everywhere. Did I get the ramming of a lifetime and black out from it?
“Maybe.” I’m not sure if I’m answering Davis’s question or my runaway thoughts, and I chuckle again. The sound quickly turns into a pathetic hiss.
Davis shifts to his side, propping his head up on his hand as he looks down at me. I don’t think he’s ever looked at me like this. There’s concern, fear, and something else wrinkling the corners of his eyes that I can’t put a name to, but it makes me want to rub my chest and soothe the burn there.
“Are you okay?”
“Um, define okay.”
“Does anything hurt?”
“A better question would be what doesn’t hurt?”
Davis glowers at me, unimpressed with my mouth. His loss. It can do lots of amazing things.
“Do you remember anything?”
“Pouring beer, Jean Jammer,” I croak out, and Davis’s eyes crinkle in confusion. “Talking to Anthony and then not much after that.”
Davis sits up, his shoulders tense and his muscles clenching beneath his fitted white t-shirt. I can see the lines of his tattoos through the material. What do they mean? I want to touch them, but that would mean lifting my hand and a quick check tells me that’s not going to happen right now.
“You were cursed and then Lena helped heal you.”
“Cursed? Lena healed me?” It takes a second for my brain to catch up. “That bastard. I saw him mumble something and then flick his hand. Holy shit. He cursed me.” I sit up on instinct, moaning loudly when that turns out to be a horrible idea.
“Shit.” Davis loops an arm behind my back, his other hand pushing gently against my shoulder, encouraging me to lie back down. “We’ll figure this out. For now, lay back down.”
“So not a problem. I’ll just move in here, never leave this spot again because, fuck.” I draw out the curse on a long hiss.
“Stay there. I’ll be right back.”
In my mind I raise my hand for a salute, but that’s not physically possible right now. Davis leaves the room and I take in every inch my eyes are capable of seeing. Is this Davis’s house? His bedroom? I’m insanely curious. Damn body. I can’t even snoop properly. I take stock and realize I’m in my jeans and a t-shirt. Someone—Davis?—must have taken my boots and coat off earlier.
There’s shuffling out in the other room. Whatever Davis is doing, he’s not far away. A few minutes later he’s back in the room, holding a bowl of soup. Did he just go make some dinner for himself? Lunch? What the hell time is it?
Moving with care, Davis sets the bowl on the beat-up nightstand next to the bed. Damn, I should have at least looked in there. I probably could have moved that far, at least.
Davis wraps his arms around me, and I make a surprised and totally embarrassing squeak when he lifts me up. When he pulls back, there’s a humorous glint in his eyes. He leans over me, his chest brushing against my breasts, making my breath hitch. Is he trying to break my spirit by torturing me with his touch? All he ends up doing is grabbing a pillow and tucking it in behind me, so I’m propped up against the wall.
There’s enough room on the edge of the bed for him to sit and he does, before grabbing the bowl off the table. I eye him, uncertain about what he’s doing.
“I made you some soup.”
My mouth drops open and Davis seizes the opportunity to shove a spoonful in. I nearly choke but get my shit together fast enough to swallow, licking my lips to catch every drop. It’s chicken noodle soup and it might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
