"Here," Sarah says as she hands Ryder a couple clean towels and a first aid kit. "Don't get blood on my couch."
Ryder ignores her as he takes the towels and the first aid kit, turning his attention back to my leg. He shakes his head. "You're going to need to take your pants off."
My eyebrows shoot up and I stare at him, waiting for some kind of confirmation that I heard him wrong. It doesn't come. "You're joking."
He looks at me blankly. "I'm not actually. Your jeans are in the way and the deepest wound is on your thigh. I can't roll your pant leg up that high."
"You haven't even tried."
Ryder gives me a flat look. "Take off your pants or I'll cut them off you." I glare at Ryder.
"Kinky." I turn my glare to Sarah at her words. She smiles. "Just saying." Ryder joins in on my glare. Sarah shrugs. "I've got a couple pairs of shorts that should fit you," She says to me. "I'll grab you a pair."
She leaves the room and comes back moments later with a pair of plain black shorts in her hands. She tosses them to me. I look to Ryder, patiently waiting for him to leave the room. He stubbornly crosses his arms over his chest.
"You have underwear on, right?" He questions.
"So what's the problem?"
I glare at him. The problem is I don't like you and I'm not giving you the satisfaction of seeing me in my underwear. I don't say any of this to him though. "Leave the room."
"It's not happening. I'll turn my back to you, but I'm not leaving the room. I'm not chancing you running off again."
"I'm injured," I remind him.
His gaze briefly goes to Sarah. "You'd have help," Is all he says.
"You put a tracker on me."
He smiles widely. "You'd get rid of it."
I grumble a string of curses at him and motion for him to turn around. He does and I struggle out of the jeans and slip on the shorts.
"You can turn around now," I tell him as I take a seat back on the couch, my leg propped up on a pillow.
"Thanks," He says dryly. "Anything else, your majesty?"
"I could really use a massage."
He looks as if he's contemplating the repercussions of hitting me. Or shooting me.
He curses me out under his breath. He takes a seat in the chair set up next to the couch and pulls the first aid kit into his lap, opening it up and rifling through it. He starts to talk to Sarah. "Can you-"
Sarah puts a bowl of water on the coffee table next to him. He glances up at her as if wondering how she knew what he was going to ask for. Finally, he just shakes his head and grabs one of the towels, dipping it into the water. He starts cleaning and clearing all the blood off my wounds.
I hiss in pain when he wipes at the deeper wound on my leg.
"Relax," He says as he holds at my leg with one hand to keep me from pulling away. "I'm almost done."
"With cleaning the wounds," I tell him. "And then you're going to stick me with a needle."
"Your tone suggests you believe I'm enjoying this."
"I don't doubt it."
"I don't enjoy getting blood all over my hands and clothes. You're ruining my favorite shirt."
YOU ARE READING
I can't keep the smile off my face as I take my seat on the plane. I slide my bag under the seat and lean back. I close my eyes and let a blissful smile grace my face. He said I wouldn't be able to run. As if. I'm vaguely aware of someone taking the...