11. Tradtions #2
She swallowed hard, the intensity of his blue gaze pinning her as blood rushed to her cheeks.
There was no denying the truth—part of her craved the passion they shared.
She always would. Before, it was wonderful, addicting.
But lacking the raw, unhinged desire they shared now.
Since he found her and forced her back to his side, she knew that there was no turning back.
She would always crave the explosive intimacy between them.
But her body was in no shape for it now. Everything still hurt, her whole body wracked with throbbing aches.
"Come on," Nash said, easing her off him with surprising gentleness. He stood, towering over her, the epitome of power and controlled aggression. "Into the bathroom. I need to check your bandages."
Shock flitted across Iris's face. "You... like you yourself?" she squeaked, disbelief coloring her tone.
His glare cut through her surprise, sharp and commanding. "I told you I'm taking care of you, Iris. What else did you think that meant?" The authority in his voice left no room for argument.
"I thought you were going to hire a nurse or something." She mumbled, not sure how to feel about him playing nursemaid. He leaned down and stared at her point blank.
"Nurses can be bought. Blackmailed. Threatened.
" His words were rough, his lips turned up into a snarl.
"I will not have someone I cannot trust that close to you.
Giving you medicines. Helping you when you're vulnerable.
Not. Going. To. Happen." His face cleared from his anger, and then he smirked. "So up you get."
Her eyes widened, and then she nodded her head. She rose stiffly, moving towards the bathroom slowly.
Nash watched her, noting the careful way she moved, the slight wince she couldn't hide. She saw his hands clench into tight fists at his side. But when he passed her to open the door to the bathroom wide for her, they were normal once more.
In fact, those very hands were uncharacteristically tender as he led Iris to the vanity stool in the spacious, marbled bathroom.
The dim lighting did little to conceal the grimace that twisted her features when she lowered herself onto the seat, the shock of pain caused from moving her battered body.
"Easy," he murmured, his voice a low rumble of concern.
Nash crouched before her, lifting the hem of her nightgown with a carefulness that she had never seen from him before.
His gaze swept over the mottled landscape of bruises that bloomed across her skin—a sickening rainbow of pain—and a growl of latent rage rumbled in his chest.
"It's alright," she murmured. "It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it used to."
He lowered his head slowly to her side. His breath against her sensitive flesh sent gentle shivers through her before she felt his lips pressed softly against the discolored skin. "I'm sorry, ma fleur."
Iris caught her breath, the sensation of his kiss on her bruises both soothing and heart-wrenching.
"It's okay," she assured him, her voice barely above a whisper, her brown eyes meeting his intense blue ones.
"You weren't the one who did this." But even as she spoke, a shiver coursed through her. They didn't know who did this, or why.
Nash's jaw clenched at her words; but all he did was lean down to pull a bag out from under the vanity.
It was a medical bag that bore the name of the hospital.
He set it on the nearby counter, ruffling through it and pulled out a distinct orange medication bottle.
He pulled out two pills and then filled up a glass from the sink.
Handing both to her, he said, "Here, this should help with the pain.
" She swallowed them with no complaint. He then began meticulously peeling away the bandages from her shoulder and head.
Then he backed away and turned the faucet on the tub.
He leaned down to check the temperature, and then he stood up and turned back to her.
"Let's get you cleaned up," he said, his voice a command that brooked no argument, yet laced with an undercurrent of concern she knew he didn't show to many people.
Sadly, she wondered if there was anyone else he cared for.
Or was it just her? In all the time she had known him, he never mentioned friends.
Or family besides his mother, who passed when he was a kid.
He worked and then he came home to her. He tracked her down after three years, and his concern over her injuries couldn't be faked. She knew he cared. But, that wasn't love.
"Come on, up." He urged when she didn't move.
Iris agreed, standing and allowing him to guide her to the bathtub.
She watched, feeling strangely detached and yet intimately connected, as his arms lifted her clear off the floor.
Gently, he lowered her into the steaming water.
She let out a small hiss when the warm water touched bruises that were still tender.
She stared at him in shock as his hands reached out for the hair products lining one shelf.
"I can do it," she insisted. Reaching out to stop him, but one fierce glare from him had her sitting back.
With soft fingers, he worked the products through her hair, massaging shampoo into the dark locks. Looking at the tender look in his eye was enough to make her heart ache. The sensation caused by his actions was too pleasurable to contain the moan that snuck past her closed lips.
His hands paused for one brief second, and then he kept moving. Taking care to massage her scalp far longer than was necessary. But who was she to complain?
Once her hair was clean, Nash lifted her out of the tub, wrapping her in a plush towel.
He dried her carefully, ensuring not to aggravate her injuries, then dressed her in a robe that swallowed her slender form.
She buried her nose into the soft material.
Inhaling deeply, a scent that somehow smelled exactly like him.
How? He hadn't even used it. Unless he had? Maybe her head injury was worse than they thought. Was imagining smells a symptom of a concussion?
"Better?" he asked, studying her face. She flushed, embarrassed to be caught sniffing his robe.
"Better," she echoed, allowing the warmth of his gaze to wash over her.
Nash's arms came around her to cradle her as he lifted Iris from the tiled floor of the bathroom. The plush robe she was swaddled in did little to shield her from feeling every muscle ripple beneath his shirt as he carried her back into the dimly lit bedroom.
He laid her down on the bed with exquisite care, his hands lingering for a moment too long, as if reluctant to let her go.
She looked up at him, and his eyes bore into hers.
Then, bending over her, Nash captured Iris's lips in a deep, passionate kiss that ignited a flame within her.
A heat so strong that it seemed to sear straight through the dull ache of her bruises.
Making her forget all about them. Her heart hammered against her ribcage. Desperate for more.
Reality extinguished the fire as quickly as it had flared. Nash pulled back, his blue eyes piercing into hers.
"Easy there, you're not well enough for that yet," he murmured, his voice filled with restrained desire. He brushed a lock of damp hair from her forehead, his touch sending shivers down her spine.
"Rest now," he urged, gesturing to the small table beside the bed where books were neatly stacked, her laptop lay closed, and the remote to the TV sat waiting. "You have everything you need here. Your phone is in the drawer if you need to call me for anything."
"Where will you be?" Iris asked, her voice a hoarse whisper, betraying the tangle of emotions she felt: longing, fear, confusion.
Nash stood up, the smirk playing on his lips, hinting at secrets untold. "I've got things to arrange," he said, the darkness of his world momentarily creeping into his tone.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Iris alone with her thoughts and the echo of their kiss. A dangerous thought flickered in her mind—what 'things' were so important that Nash was finally leaving her unattended?