Chapter Twenty-Six
In which there are baths and an impressive level of self-control for Ethan. Also, endless erections.
Ethan…
I’m one twisted bastard.
Sloan is so ill, she’s weak and the poor lass has been through hell, but filling the tub for her, all I can think about is stripping her naked and climbing in with her. She’d lose her mind if she knew it wouldn’t be the first time.
Two days ago…
It was the second day of Sloan’s illness and Dr. MacTavish gave a “hmmm…” as she examined her.
“What would that ‘hmmm’ be meaning, Doc?” I’m standing at the foot of the bed, watching the patient monitor tracking Sloan’s heart rate and blood oxygenation count. It’s concerningly low, even with the supplementary oxygen.
“She’s doing better, but I don’t like how stubborn this fever is.” She runs a thermometer over Sloan’s forehead again. “I think putting her in a cool bath is a good idea. Not freezing. Sometimes, that can break a fever faster than medication can.”
“I’ll do it.”
Doc pauses, looking at me sternly. “Do you think Miss Masters would prefer you?”
“She’s unconscious. She canna choose. But I know her best,” I say flatly, with no room for argument.
Our clan doctor is not the type to defer to any man, no matter how high up in the hierarchy he might be, but after a moment, she purses her lips and agrees. “Cool water, mind. I’ll change her sheets while you bathe her.”
We gently disconnect her from all the machines and I carry her into the bathroom. She’s so light, her heated little body burning against mine and her head resting against my chest.
Looking at the tub and her, I realize she’s not going to be able to do this without me. Holding her on my lap, I quickly undress us both and climb into the tub, settling her on top of me. Her poor, fevered body sinks into the cool water with a little moan of gratitude from her cracked lips.
“Shhh… poor lass. I’ll take care of you.” I draw the washcloth up and down her arms, her face, and neck. Her breasts are just above the water, her sweet, pink nipples puckered. My cock is thickening and I curse myself for being such a sick feck.
Balancing her on my thigh and away from my dick, I keep running the cloth over her broiling hot skin. There’s eucalyptus oil in the water, and it seems to be helping her breathe a bit. I don’t keep fancy girl shite like that here, but my Ma sent over a care package. She’s offered to come over and help me care for Sloan, all the aunties have. But she is my responsibility.
She lets out a little moan. “Nate… sorry. Sorry… I’ll fix it.”
What happened to her brother? Why does she feel this guilt? When she’s better and she can tell me, I’ll fix this for her. With extreme, bloody finality.
Currently…
When I carry Sloan into the bathroom and seat her on the toilet, she stares at me.
“I’m not moving until you shut the door,” she says flatly. “With you on the other side.”
I smother a grin. “Sorry lass, I’m not lettin’ ya fall and get hurt. We have places to be. I can just take ya as is, but…”
She gives an angry little growl and it’s the cutest thing. I know she’d try to stab me if I said that out loud. Turning on the water in the sink, I turn my back. “Go ahead, then. I won’t look.”
I can hear her flush and the little ‘thud!’ as she tries to stand up and sways, hitting the wall. “I did tell ya to wait,” I say sternly. “What if ya hit your head on the tub?”
She’s leaning weakly against the wall, glaring at me.
“I’ll close my eyes,” I growl irritably.
Taking her arm, I support her while she gets undressed, pivoting to the tub to help her in. “Are your eyes still closed?” she asks suspiciously.
“Aye, lass. Just get in and stop fussing.” When I hear her splashing, I seat myself on a bench by the shower. I can see her, just her shoulders and head above the tub’s rim. She’s lying back, eyes closed, and looking blissful.
“You have a bottle of bubble bath just sitting around in your bathroom?” she says, eyes still closed. “I never figured you for a bubble bath guy. Do you have all the aromatherapy salts, too?”
“The bubble bath is for ya,” I say. “A little extra privacy.” Leaning my head against the wall, I smother a yawn. Four days of little to no sleep, then getting stabbed and shot is catching up with me.
“Oh.” I can hear her swishing the bath water. “Thank you. So, the guys who attacked us. Were they from my stepfather?”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “No, they were my problem this time.”
“Yeah, you probably have a lot of people who really hate your guts.” She sounds a bit pleased by this. “So how do you keep track? Like, is there a flow chart based on the enemy and their statistical likelihood of trying to murder you?”
“I like your thinking,” I say approvingly. “As it happens, the clan has a team that keeps a very close eye on all potential threats. This particular group’s attack was unexpected, but we tend to stay prepared for anything.”
More swishing of the water. “I’m glad none of your people died,” she says thoughtfully.
“Aye, me too. Slide down a bit, I’m going to wash your hair.” I open my eyes to see her sink under the bubbles. She’s clearly evaluating her options here. But since she can barely stand upright, I’m winning this battle.
“All right,” she says in the most sulky possible way before issuing a little, “Thank you.”
Running the shampoo through her long hair, I try to think of disgusting things. My cousin Ewan’s spotty ass, which he attempts to show off at every opportunity. Spinach. Flesh-eating bacteria. Because washing her hair should not be making me hard. Not when the poor lass is still so sick and weak. Then, she gives a little sigh of pleasure that nearly undoes me. Gritting my teeth, I rinse her hair, and the conditioner is another exercise in restraint. As I’m gently scratching her scalp, she lets out a moan that is pornographic. The kind of moan she gave when I made her come, writhing on the bed in Club Vice.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph this woman is killing me.
I manage to get through drying her off and dressing her without coming in my pants like a fecking twelve year old but it’s close.
“Thank you,” she says as I’m pulling up her leggings. “I feel much better.”
She looks healthier, her hair neatly done in a braid and wearing clean clothes. My cousin Catriona dropped by with some new clothes and shoes for Sloan, but I put the jumpers away. I like seeing her in my old t-shirts too much.
“We’re heading up to the roof,” I warn, helping her put on her shoes. “It’s a bit rough up there.”
“Why are we going to the roof?”
“Because that’s where the helicopter is.”
The elevator doors open to something that looks like a tsunami, an earthquake, a wildfire, and an atomic bomb all got together for a raging party. Sloan nearly trips, trying to witness all the destruction.
“What the hell?” she sputters.
“Ya do recall yesterday?” I lift her up into the helicopter, putting a set of headphones over her sweet-smelling hair.
“Well, yeah, but…” She leans over, trying to see the other side of the roof. “This is…”
There’s large craters in the concrete, and two of the ornamental stone corners of the building were ripped away by the explosions. The ground is still littered with bullet casings and the potted trees and flowers from the rooftop garden are nothing but shredded leaves and broken pieces of ceramic.
“This sounds weird but I feel so sad for the rooftop,” she says, “it looked like it was really pretty before the… who was it again?”
“A bunch of Irish pricks,” I said, getting in and nodding to the pilot.
“A bunch of Irish pricks with a lot of bullets, huh?” she says as we take off.
The flight to Edinburgh is only thirty minutes or so, and Sloan spends the entire flight leaning over me, trying to see it all. The River Clyde runs like a cerulean ribbon through Glasgow before the terrain changes to green hills and then we follow along the coastline to the city.
“I’ve only been in Scotland once,” she says, “I never got to see Edinburgh. Do you have family here, too?”
“Edinburgh is the MacTavish Clan’s home base,” I explain, “though with a family as enormous as ours, we’ve got assorted second cousins and random aunties and uncles scattered all over Scotland.” The chopper lands on the roof of an office building and I lift Sloan out.
“Is this one of your family’s buildings?” she asks. Patrick, who joined us on this little jaunt is carrying her medical equipment with a frown. He hates any activity that doesn’t allow him to hold his gun.
“No, I borrowed a friend’s landing pad on their building. In case any arseholes are staking out MacTavish properties.”
“That makes sense.”
I’ve been concerned that the flight would be too much for her, but she’s walking well with a little help. A bit of a shame, that. I enjoyed having an excuse to carry her around.
She’s silent as I help her into a heavily armored SUV, though she snickers a bit at the heavy ‘clunk!’ when I close the door. Snicker all ya like, love, I think. I’m taking no chances with you.