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I giggle. I never giggle, but maybe I’m just giddy that I am still alive. It could also be from the blood loss.
I reach out for the treats, but Dante pulls away the ambrosia of baked goods and asks seductively, “Are you sure you want to taste my cookies?”
“Seriously?” I roll my eyes. “I almost died, and you are making me beg for cookies?”
“It’s just that you seem…conflictedabout trying my cookies or my hot cocoa.” He reaches down and opens a thermos. The scent of steaming hot, chocolaty goodness wafts out.
“May I have your cookies and hot cocoa?” I say with irritation.
“I thought you’d never ask.” He sets the containers aside and crawls over me.
“Dante!” I whack him on the chest, and he falls back with laughter.
“All right,” he concedes. With his strong arms, he gently lifts me and helps me sit against the headboard, then he offers me a chocolate chip cookie.
I pause and wonder, “You didn’t put laxatives or something in this, did you?”
“What? You almost died, as you just reminded me.”
“You didn’t say no.”
“No, but thanks for the instant karma idea.”
“Just never use it on me.” Biting into the warm cookie, I moan. Does it taste better because I escaped death?
Dante’s eyes dilate, but I ignore the physical arousal cue. When any woman moans in bed, most guys probably find it arousing, so it has nothing to do with me.
To divert his intense attention from my moaning mouth, I demand, “Cocoa. Stat!”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hands me the thermos.
I study Dante as I sip the warm, delicious liquid, wondering what circumstances brought him to work for Karma. What debt does he need to shed? I can’t ask him and open that topic up, though, since I’m not ready to talk about my past—maybe ever.
“May I?” Dante points to my mostly healed injury.
I nod and set the thermos down. He gingerly pulls down the blanket and lifts the shirt he loaned me, exposing my midsection. I notice I’m wearing boxers. My underwear is long gone, likely soaked with my blood, and I blush, thinking of him stripping me down and dressing me in his clothes.
Above my hip, I have an angry-looking pink scar, but the wound is sealed. As I turn my attention inward, I feel pinching and bloating in the area, so it hasn’t completely healed.
Dante presses his fingers down slowly. “How does that feel?”
I suck in a breath with the pain. “Not good.”
“She’s not allowing you to heal quickly.” He frowns and doesn’t look at my face. “You are lucky that guy wanted to make you suffer for a while and didn’t hit your intestines or kidney.”
“Lucky?” I wince as he explores my abdomen with his fingertips. “So you should be able to heal me faster?”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Do you suppose she wants to teach you not to run from her?”
“Apparently, she isn’t the only one who wants to teach me that lesson.”
He looks up quickly to catch my meaning. “That guy?”
“He’s just the messenger.” I shake my head and clamp my mouth shut. I didn’t mean to talk about my past.
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t push me to explain. Instead, he focuses on his hands, and they glow. My side buzzes with energy, and warmth and relaxation pulse through my body. It feels so good, I could melt into the mattress and form a puddle of goo.
When Dante stops, I whimper.
