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There was a momentary surge of panic.
Over my laptop.
My small stash of cash in the sole of one of my boots in the closet – the pair I had fallen head-over-heels with, but which had never fit my calf comfortably.
And, of course, the little decorative box in my second drawer in my nightstand that held, well, a certain item that acted as a boyfriend replacement.
I could just picture my super – a somewhat creepy guy who was thin to the point of gaunt with a shaggy haircut straight out of the eighties, a constant smattering of adult acne, and a tendency to smile at you in a way that made you feel slimy – coming across that particular item, picturing me using it.
But it didn’t matter, I reminded myself, if I was never going to see the man again.
I sat there for a long moment, Captain’s head in my lap, my free hand absentmindedly stroking his head while I drank my coffee.
I hadn’t had a dog since I was little – this ancient Shih Tzu that was crotchety and barked at everything, had little patience for a young me. After she passed around the time I was seven, my mother decided she didn’t want the burden of having any more pets.
I couldn’t claim to be a dog lover. I mean, I enjoyed a cute puppy as much as the next girl, but I never felt the need to get one of my own.
Of course, that was before meeting Captain. Who might well have been half human.
I hadn’t interacted much with the other dogs – all seven of them. Most of them huge, a little mean-looking. Save for the little one who looked like that dog from Fraiser. They kept a wide berth when moving around me. I didn’t know if it was because they genuinely didn’t like me, or if they just stayed away because Captain had staked his claim on me.
As for the other animals, well, I would learn.
I hadn’t ever really done any manual labor either, but I figured my body would adjust, toughen up. And maybe all that hardening up would help my mind and spirit do the same, allow me to be able to be in my skin without it feeling itchy, foreign, uncomfortable.
Finishing my coffee, I washed out both our cups then made my way toward the bathroom, stepping in front of the mirror for the first time since the day I was at the hospital.
The bruises had faded a lot. They traded blues and purples for yellows and greens, making me look more sickly and alien than injured. The scabs that had taken over my eyebrow and lip had been rubbed off while tossing and turning, leaving behind the expected light pink scars.
What bothered me more than the injuries that had been inflicted upon me was the damage I had clearly done to myself.
My eyes were shadowed, purple bags from worrying too much. My cheeks had lost their fullness, my jawline narrowing out from the lack of food I had been putting in my body.
And my hair.
God, my hair.
Determined to undo some of the ugly I had done to myself, I turned toward the shower/bath combo, turning on the water like I had heard Ranger do many times before, waiting the impossibly long time before the water finally turned warm enough to climb under, stripping out of the filthy clothes that practically felt oily to the touch – much like my own skin – I got in the shower.
Maybe I should have asked about things such as where the water came from, if we needed to conserve it, if I should be careful of certain soaps.
I didn’t consider them then, though, as I triple washed my hair and body. As I reached for the razor Miller had dropped off, ruthlessly removing all the body hair that I never would have allowed to overgrow in my old life.
It wasn’t until I had dried off and was using a hairbrush I found hidden in a bottom drawer to get the tangles out of my hair that I realized something.
I had no clothes.
Panties, yes, thanks to Miller.
But nothing to wear.
Taking a deep breath, I wrapped the towel more securely around me, moving out of the bathroom, stepping in front of his door, knocking before I lost my nerve.
There was no reason to feel weird.
He didn’t look at me like that.
And as much as maybe my pride took the tiniest of hits thanks to that fact, the practical part of me knew that there was very little to be attracted to. A beaten, scarred, depressed woman who was a burden.
It was not the kind of thing that inspired attraction.
I mean… not that I wanted him to be attracted to me or anything.
I took the growling noise from behind the door as an invitation to enter, pushing open the door to his room, finding him sprawled in bed, arm cocked behind his head on the pillow. His shirt missing, leaving his strong, muscled, scarred, tattooed body on display.
