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“I’ve never been in either situation,” she murmurs.
“Makes sense. They needed a virgin for their little ritual tonight, didn’t they?”
She doesn’t answer.
I don’t need her to. “Is there a reason you went to that party dressed as a virgin sacrifice, or was that a happy coincidence?”
“I’m not dressed as a virgin sacrifice. I’m Christine from Phantom of the Opera. Only depraved college guys seem to think I’m a virgin sacrifice.”
I crack a smile at her annoyance. “I’ve seen that show. Maybe I wasn’t sitting close enough, but I didn’t think the stage costume was quite so sexy.”
“There’s a movie,” she says as the scissors slice through the material of my hoodie. “Gerard Butler and Emmy Rossum. That one is much sexier.”
“Gotcha. So, you didn’t have any idea what they had planned.”
“Of course I didn’t. I’m not a lunatic.” She puts down the scissors and tentatively grabs the separated ends of the fabric. “I don’t know how I’m going to do this without hurting you. Some of the glass is going through the fabric and your skin. Are you sure you don’t want a doctor to do this? I’m afraid I won’t do it right.”
“All you have to do is take the glass out, clean the area, and put the skin glue on to close it back up.”
“That’s assuming I’ll get all of it and not leave a shard of glass in your body by accident. This is stupid. You live in an apartment the size of an entire floor of my old dorms; you can afford proper medical care.”
“It’ll be fine.”
Sighing heavily with annoyance, she says, “You know, it’s arrogant stupidity like this that got Khal Drogo killed.”
Her reference is so far out of left field—and so factual, as if that person actually exists—I can’t help cracking a smile. “If it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.”
She mutters under her breath about my recklessness, but she still begins carefully peeling the shirt off my body.
“Are you squeamish?” I ask her.
“No,” she murmurs, leaning down to inspect my injuries, then pulling back. “I need more light. Do you have a reading light or something I can point at it?”
“Yep.” I point toward my headboard. “On the side over there is a compartment. Open it up and look for the flashlight bulb. You can pull it out and position it however you need it.”
“You should have told me you were Tony Stark,” she mutters, her nails finding the edge of the compartment. “I didn’t recognize you without the suit.”
Before she starts to pull and risks fucking up the mechanism, I tell her, “That’s not how you open it. Push the panel in, the mechanism will unlock, then you can open it.”
She blinks, then presses her palm against the smooth wood. Effortlessly, the compartment opens.
Brynn is amazed. “I didn’t know they made beds like this.”
“It’s custom. You can get anything made if you’re willing to pay enough for it.”
“But why?” she asks, leaning over to look at the components inside. Instead of pulling out the reading light, she pulls out steel rings attached to chains that she can only pull out so far. Her big brown eyes widen. “What could you possibly need these for?”
“Not reading,” I say dryly. “The light’s in the compartment at the top.”
Rather than put the anchors back and get back to work, she stares at me. “Are you preparing for a zombie apocalypse, or planning to kidnap some coeds and keep them prisoner in your bedroom?”
I crack a smile. “Trust me, anyone who gets tied to this bed is plenty willing. I’ve never had to resort to kidnapping. Now, normally I’d be happy to give you a demonstration, but right now I’m kind of feeling the sexy nurse over the bound beauty, so… can we get back to removing the glass from my back?”
Her cheeks flush and she feeds the chain back into the headboard, but I can see she’s still thinking about it, wondering what kind of man she’s alone in a bedroom with.
Wordlessly, she finds the arm with the reading light and positions it so it’s pointed where she needs it, then she blows out a breath and tries to refocus on mending my injuries—probably quickly, so she can get the hell out of here.
Her touch is gentle as she works. I try to keep from tensing up so she doesn’t think she’s hurting me. She works section by section, her focus impenetrable. Maybe she doesn’t have any professional training, but I don’t think she gave herself enough credit about her qualifications for doing a little advanced first aid.
