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Carefully, I rinse her body. Her hair is piled on her head in a fancy updo. The blond strands smell of the night air in Johannesburg, like smoke with a faint undertone of blood. It’s the signature scent of the dangerous streets in the dark. The dirty smell doesn’t mask the whiff of perfume clinging to her hair, a faint odor of vanilla. I make sure not to get her hair wet. Only a few tendrils in her neck are soaked when I drag a sponge over her skin and squeeze soapy water over her body.
Her nipples contract. My dick grows from semi to full-blown hard where it’s trapped between our bodies. Like earlier, the reaction comes as a surprise. I don’t normally get hard for unconscious women who can’t defend themselves. It must be the thrill of the victory. It’s a good thing I find her attractive. Even if she had a big, fat mole on her forehead and hair sprouting from her nose, I’d still carry out the plan. Her features and body simply make my pending task easier.
When she’s clean from mud and blood, my cock has calmed somewhat. I pull the plug, turn on the shower nozzle fitted to the tap, and make quick work of rinsing us until the dirty slush in the bath has drained and the water runs clean. Then I turn off the tap and carefully lower her onto her back in the empty tub while I get the towels. After wrapping one around my waist, I lift her and cover her with the other one. Back in the room, I lie her down on the bed and towel her dry. The cut on her hip bleeds again. I leave the towel under her body to absorb the blood and go back for the items on the vanity.
Unable to help myself, I steal another look at her as I line up the medical supplies. I didn’t do a good job of cleaning her face. Mascara runs black under her eyes. It makes her look more vulnerable and strangely also more pretty. Maybe the smeared make-up highlights her classical beauty by means of contrast.
For the next fifteen minutes, I disinfect her wounds and stitch her up. The cut on her hip requires no less than fifteen stitches. It’s going to leave a scar. Marring her perfect skin should be the least of my concerns, yet looking at her naked, I notice the perfection. I don’t want to be the man who ruins it. The irony of the thought isn’t lost on me. She’ll be ruined in a much worse way when I’m done with her. The scars I’ll leave won’t be visible, but they’ll undoubtably run deeper.
It can’t be prevented. She’s collateral damage. Still, I retrieve my jacket from the chair, take my phone from the pocket, and call Mateo.
“We’re ready for you,” he says with glee. He’s as hungry for justice as I am.
I pull a blanket over Evie’s body. “I need tissue oil and a tetanus shot. Send Andrew. Tell him to get bandages and antibiotics, too.”
A second ticks by before he speaks. “What about Warren’s men?”
“They’ll wait.”
Not giving him time to argue, I end the call.
A soft whimper falls from Evie’s lips. She stirs. I check my watch. Right on time. The doctor said she wouldn’t be out for more than an hour.
I leave the phone on the nightstand and pause at the side of the bed. Her long, dark lashes flutter. A frown pleats her brow. Her eyelids twitch and lift. The greenest eyes I’ve seen stare at me. Her regard is hazy, far-off. Two blinks, and her gaze clears. Her pupils contract, fear bleeding into her irises as consciousness sets in.
Pushing up onto her elbows, she tries to sit but stops midway with a wince.
I place a hand on her shoulder, applying gentle pressure to push her down. “Keep still. I had to give you stitches.”
Her dainty nostrils flare as she breathes through the pain. She keeps her gaze trained on me, cleverly not looking away from the danger. “What do you want?”
I don’t give her an answer she won’t want to hear. “I’ll get you something for the pain.”
“Where am I?”
She can swap one question for another, but she’ll quickly learn the only information she’ll get is what I want to give her.
“Who are you?” she asks.
I drop the towel. That shuts her up. Her gaze darts to my semi. The way in which her body goes rigid under the blanket says she’s getting ready to fight again, but force isn’t my modus operandi. I need to get dressed, but I can’t leave her alone, and I don’t want to tie her up when she’s injured. Instead, I pull on the clothes I left on the chair.
When I’m dressed, she tries again.
