Chapter 6
COLIN
Hospital waiting rooms, even ones in civilized cities in world-class hospitals, all suck to holy hell. I don’t sit. Joe alternately sits with Kat and joins me in paces around the room. It’s filled with the Kittens and band members, Kat’s manager Bianca and Brody.
Joe and I wordlessly agreed that we wouldn’t call Dag’s family—which consists of one brother—or any from her unit which is her real family, until we get the post-op prognosis from the docs. This is standard operating procedure—SOP—for our unit.
“t’s late,” Joe says to Kat. Stating the obvious after checking his Breitling. “You don’t need to stay. I know you’re exhausted
“t’s late,” Joe says to Kat. Stating the obvious after checking his Breitling. “You don’t need to stay. I know you’re exhausted
“t’s late,” Joe says to Kat. Stating the obvious after checking his Breitling. “You don’t need to stay. I know you’re exhausted.”
“But I—”
I swing by, adjusting the path of my pacing around the room, and interrupt. “We’ll let you know as soon as we get word.”
She smiles up at me from where she’s half lying on the uncomfortable orange couch.
“Thank you, but I—"
“You can come by tomorrow to see her.”
“That would be perfect. I really need to tell her in person how grateful I am that she saved my life.” She tilts her head and gives me a look. “You all did.”
“Great,” Joe says, helping her up.
Glancing around the room, it looks like everyone else takes their cue from Kat, joining her, saying thank yous and good-byes. Joe walks them to the lobby.
When Joe returns and it’s just the two of us waiting, it takes another hour for the doors to swing open and a doc in scrubs to emerge, trailed by other medical personnel.
It looks like the entire surgical team has come to talk to us and I freeze, but not before my blood sinks to my toes and my gut feels like it’s in the grip of a mother-fucking anaconda.
The doctor says, “Your friend required extensive internal stitching, but she’s stable.
Her prognosis is good, but we’ll need to keep her here for several days until we can upgrade her as ready to go home.
She can complete her recovery at home with nursing visits.
It should take three to six months for complete healing.
Right now, she’s groggy and needs some rest, but you can talk to her for a few minutes, then—”
“We’ll take care,” I say, cutting him off, because I have no intentions of leaving her bedside tonight and no ability to analyze or question why I need to stay. For now I’m accepting it as if it’s necessary for my survival to be here with her. Or maybe necessary for hers.
Joe says, “We’re ex-special ops with some medical training and some experience caring for seriously wounded soldiers.”
The doc nods at each of us with respect, and takes a minute like he’s measuring the merits of his respect against hospital regulations. He finally makes the right decision and leaves us in peace.
Joe murmurs his thanks to the man as he walks by. I don’t even know the doc’s name, never bothered to look at the name on the plastic ID tag hanging from his neck.
Shit. That’s not good form for a security specialist.
Finding her room, we go inside without knocking and stop a few feet from the bed where Dag lies, still and quiet.
Joe and I exchange glances, sharing our trepidation for a blink.
Turning back to Dag, I examine her with a searching gaze from head to toe, noticing everything about her, small and large.
I note the way she breathes, the way her eyes flutter open and then close, the flow of liquids through the needle in her hand, knowing it carries pain meds and antibiotics. Most of all I notice her stillness.
Dagmar Larsen and motionless don’t go together, not even when she’s injured, not normally. It’s sad that I’ve observed—and struggled through—enough occasions to know this about her.
Her eyes open again and she turns her head to face me, her eyes half-lidded and glassy, and so help me, my first thought is how fucking sexy she looks.
“Collin,” she whispers, then lifts her free hand in my direction. I sit in the chair at the side of her bed, pulling it close and take her hand in mine. It’s cool, but there’s strength in her grip as she holds my hand and lowers our entangled hands back down to the blankets.
Joe comes forward and carefully sits on the edge of the bed without making even a tiny disturbance. Stealth was always his special talent. He’s the best at moving through any space unnoticed.
“How are you, Dag?” He says softly like he’s talking to his kid sister.
That’s always how he’s described his relationship with her.
Though I never had any reason to question his claim, I never understood it because Dagmar is far too explosively sensual to think of as sisterly in any way. Not for me.
Sometimes I wish I could think of her the same way Joe does, but that’s the same thing as wishing I were Superman. Pipe-dream thinking.
“How do you think I am?” she says with a half-smile, licking her lips like they’re dry.
“I just got stabbed and stitched and lost a fair amount of blood in the process.” She stops and heaves a breath like her sarcasm took all her energy.
I don’t want to think about how close to her lungs the knife came.
“Too much blood,” I say. “Save your strength. You don’t have to talk.”
She looks at me and I notice a vague spark in her eyes, barely noticeable, but it’s there. I’d swear to it. She gives my hand a small squeeze, the kind that’s supposed to reassure me, but tells me I’m right about her lack of strength.
“I hate when you’re right.” There’s a ghost of a smile on her lips as her eyes flutter closed.
Joe rises from her bed with the same quiet deftness and motions me toward the doorway.
I shake my head and nod in the direction of my hand in hers.
He smirks, but doesn’t comment and who the hell knows what he’s thinking, but I’d swear on my Granny’s grave that he’s wrong. There’s nothing between us except a past bond. And whatever it was back then, it’s now strictly professional.
“I’m going to grab some sleep. You staying?”
I nod.
“Okay, but when I get back you’re taking a break.”
I don’t answer him.
“We have a new client,” he says. “A new job that might start as soon as next week. You going to be ready?”
“I will but what about Dag? She’s not going to be ready for shit by next week.”
“She’ll be released in a couple of days. We’ll see what she can do from the office. This is the kind of job with less action and more security systems expertise needed.”
“Who’s the client?”
“Encore Boston. They want to upgrade their security for high profile talent they’re booking for a residency next month and we’ve been personally requested.”
I raise a brow, curiosity breaking through my worry about Dag.
“By who?”
“Don’t know yet.” Joe checks the ever-present Breitling on his wrist. “I’ll fill you in on the details tomorrow.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You have a date.”
He rolls his eyes and leaves without confirming or denying.
I settle into my chair, grabbing a pillow, but before I put my feet up, I lean in and without thinking, brush my lips across her forehead.
“Good-night, sweetheart.” I whisper the endearment from our past and then wonder why the hell I bothered.
Then I shut down those old sentiments viciously before I come up with the answer to my question.
In spite of how unsettling this eruption of feelings that should be long gone may be, I leave my hand in hers, lift my feet onto a second chair and lean back into the pillow, closing my eyes with determination.
But her unforgettable face remains in my head, staring back at me from the insides of my eyelids. All on its own, my thumb strokes her palm, caressing her cool skin, more to soothe me than her.
What I really want to do is cup her face in my hands and kiss those sensual lips, to kiss her temples, her earlobes, to run my fingers through her hair and—
I’m an asshole for thinking this while she’s so vulnerable. But however close a call the stab was according to the doc, she’s a survivor and she’s already been upgraded to stable or the nurses would have brought an orderly to kick me out of here.
In an attempt to reach the level of calm I need to sleep, I rely on the method from our old special ops days, concentrating on each second as it passes, the fact that I’m breathing, my heart is pumping, the air is still and I’m alive. And so is she.
Each second I string together brings a lowering of my guard with the deeply ingrained confidence that my guard will thunder back within a flick of my pulse if needed.
My breathing slows and I drift, and as I do, my thoughts return to Dagmar, to kissing her.
Music infiltrates the quiet room and the smell of spice and when I turn around I see her walk towards me wearing a sheer white robe.
I meet her smile and my heart beats faster as I recognize the rare softness in her expression, and even faster as the robe slips from her shoulders, draping onto the floor.
Our gazes stay connected as we move together and we say nothing, but she looks me up and down. I’m naked. Maybe I knew we’d meet here, in a room with nothing but a pristine bed, unspoiled by anything but white sheets, not even pillows.
We fall into the airy plush bed and it feels like we’re floating. She has no bandages and I touch her face and her ribs where the stab wounds should be, but all I feel is heart-stammering silky flesh.
She laughs and wraps her arms and legs around me. Without words, she claims my mouth. And her hands claim me, wandering over my biceps, my chest, my abdomen and lower until she grips my pulsing heavy cock in her soft strong hand.