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This was so ironic. The man was an asshole who’d made me marry him, but look at him now—so vulnerable, as though we’d swapped positions.
A voice inside my head whispered that I didn’t have to do anything to help him, that this wasn’t my job. Sebastian didn’t deserve my compassion and maybe this was my best chance to make and escape. No one was guarding the door on the other side and I knew if left him here, his condition might worsen. He might even die from internal hemorrhaging.
Damn it.I stared at the door that would take me out of the penthouse, to the elevator, and down to the street. To freedom.
So what the hell I was still doing in here?
I turned to look at his face, so pale and withdrawn. A sheen of sweat coated his skin, and his hands were cold when I touched them now.
I couldn’t just leave. A complete asshole he may be, but he needed me now. I’d missed him when he was away and now that he was back, nothing has changed. I still wanted to be in his life.
A sob escaped my mouth because I didn’t recognize myself anymore. My life had changed overnight, my freedom gone—yet I was prepared to give it all up to follow a senseless hunch to be with this man.
He stirred and emitted a soft cry of pain.
“Shhh… just stay still. I’ll go get another cloth,” I whispered as I carefully lifted his shirt to see the damage to his ribs. The whole area looked terrible, and a couple of pills were not going to cut it. “I’ll call Penelope to ask for stronger painkillers.”
As I started to get up, he opened his eyes and caught my hand.
“No, just stay,” he mumbled. “Whiskey. In cabinet by … the … window.” It seemed to take a superhuman effort just to talk.
“Okay. Hold on.”
I went to fix a generous measure of whiskey and brought it back to him. Lifting his head again, I let him take a few sips and imagined the liquid burning down his throat. When he had enough, he gestured for me to stop, then just stared at me in silence as I busied myself rearranging the things I had on the side table. He wheezed softly as he breathed, and I worried about damage to his lungs.
Soon but not soon enough, the doctor came, and I was practically kicked out and told to go to my room. I held myself as I looked out the window, watching the sun start to vanish behind the horizon. After some time, I fixed myself some sandwiches and forced myself to eat them as I hadn’t had any food all day. I could barely taste anything. Later, I went downstairs to find Sebastian wasn’t on the sofa anymore. I tried to go to his room but a man stopped me, telling me he needed to rest. I let him be for tonight but in the morning, I’d insist to be allowed in. As his wife, I had a right to take care of him—and I would.
I wondered if my husband and Andreas would be okay. Tomorrow was going to be difficult, and maybe he wouldn’t be able to walk for a while, so he’d need a lot of help. Would they let me see him? Take care of him? It didn’t matter because I wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Why did I care so much?
I’d asked that question so many times, I was annoying myself. Maybe I should just give in and admit I was all kinds of fucked up.
I actually gave a damn about my beast of a kidnapper.
* * *
“What areyou doing to me, teacup?” he asked as I struggled to take off his t-shirt. Penelope wasn’t going to come until tomorrow and I wanted to make him more comfortable, change him into clean clothing and wash him up, but he was so heavy and not easy to move.
“I’m trying to get the smell of sweat off you and get you freshened up. You stink,” I told him.
I woke around dawn today. I couldn’t really sleep, tossing and turning all night, so when the sky started to lighten, I gave up. I kept going back down to the living room to talk to the guard and make sure Sebastian was all right and someone had checked on him.
When I told the man I was going inside the bedroom this morning, he didn’t even stop me.
Today his face looked worse, the skin turned purple, but the healing process had begun. The swelling had gone down as I’d applied some ice to it yesterday, then rubbed some tea tree essential oil I’d found in the bathroom. This morning he was conscious enough to ask for more painkillers.
“Just cut it off me,” he said. I noticed that his breathing was still labored and wheezing.
“But it’s a designer t-shirt. If I just lift—”
“Wife, if I move even an inch, the pain is going to knock me out and I need to be conscious for this,” he said, staring down at my lips. I kept reminding myself that he was the bad, bad mobster who abused me, kidnapped me, and punished me because I was a bad, bad girl.
Fuck, why did that thought sound so hot?
“Why do you need to be conscious? It’s better if you sleep through my miserable attempts at cleaning you,” I joked.
“Oh, because I want to see how well you’re taking care of me,” he replied in a silly tone. “Dear God, I can almost imagine you in a sexy nurse costume. I would have instantly forgotten about my injuries and just fuck you senseless, until you wouldn’t remember your name.” He spoke so quietly that for a second, I thought he was trying to be funny, but he didn’t seem to be joking.
