Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters Book 3)

The dream is horrifically violent.

It starts with gunfire and gets worse, with blood and body parts flying everywhere. I hear screaming and smell smoke. The building I’m in is on fire. I’m trying to run, but my legs are powerless. The walls catch fire, then so do my clothing and hair. My skin turns black and curls off my body like burning paper.

I jerk awake with a strangled scream, my heart pounding.

“It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here.”

Mal pulls me up and against his chest. He rocks me and murmurs soothing words in Russian as I shake and gasp for air. Clinging to him as the dream fades, I bury my face in his chest.

He says gently, “Next time you have a nightmare, remind yourself that you’re dreaming. It’s not real. Then tell yourself to wake up.”

“That makes no sense. How can I tell myself anything if I’m asleep?”

“Your subconscious will remember I told you. From now on, you’ll be able to wake yourself up from a bad dream. It won’t stop you from having them, but it will help.”

I ponder that, wondering if he has bad dreams, until he says, “I’m going to run a bath.”

“Didn’t you just take a shower?”

“It’s not for me. It’s for you.” He pulls away and smooths a hand over my hair. “You stink.”

I say drily, “That is so not helpful.”

“Helpful or not, it’s the truth. Drink some water.”

He leans over to the nightstand and hands me the glass he retrieves from it. He watches in silence until I’ve gone through half the water, then rises and goes into the bathroom.

I feel around on the nightstand for my glasses. When I get them on, I realize the terrifying moose head is gone.

I find that very, very disturbing. Did I imagine it?

When Mal returns to the room, I point at the blank spot on the wall where the hideous thing used to reside. “Wasn’t there a moose there?”

“No.” Before I can freak out that this is definitive evidence I’ve lost my shit, he adds, “It was an elk.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“I took it down.”

I consider that for several seconds. “You took the elk head off the wall after I went to sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t like it.”

That makes me blink in surprise. “So in addition to being able to walk through walls, you can read minds.”

“No, but I can read faces. Yours is unusually expressive.”

Oh, that’s wonderful. What the hell must my face have been telling him when he was strutting around with his damn shirt off?

I hope it wasn’t the same thing my ovaries were saying, because those horny little egg producers have only one thing on their minds.

My cheeks heating, I glance down at my hands. Mal approaches the bed, flips the covers off my legs, and picks me up. As he carries me to the bathroom, I say, “I’m supposed to be walking.”

“You will be. Let’s get you clean first.”

I don’t have much time to worry about the “let’s” part, because he makes his intentions clear when he sets me on my feet in front of the tub and starts pulling at my sleep shirt.

“Whoa! What’re you doing?”

I jerk away from him so hard, I lose my balance. With his hand gripped around my upper arm, he steadies me so I don’t fall.

He says calmly, “You’re feeling shy. There’s no need to be. I’ve already seen all of you there is to see, inside and out.”

I gape at him in horror, mentally recoiling from all the possibilities of that statement, until he provides me with a detailed explanation that leaves no room for doubt.

“I stood at the head of your bed when they opened your stomach to get the bullet and your damaged organs out. I gave you sponge baths while you were drugged. I changed your clothes, changed your bedsheets, and helped the nurse change your catheter when it got plugged. There isn’t an inch of your body I’m not already familiar with.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and chant, “Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.”

“You’re not dreaming.”

“This has to be a dream. There’s no universe in which this can possibly be real.”

He exhales in impatience. “Don’t be dramatic. Bodies are just meat.”

I open my eyes and glare at him in outrage. “Excuse me for not being deadened to all sense of humanity, Mr. International Assassin, but my body is not meat to me.”

He examines my expression for a moment. “Are you angry because you think I might’ve touched you inappropriately?”

“Jesus!”

“Because I didn’t. I would never take advantage like that. I’m a psychopath, not a pervert. I believe strongly in consent.”

“Well, that’s tremendous news! I feel so much better now!”

Ignoring my scathing tone and blistering hostility, he adds in a husky voice, “And there are many things I’d like to get your specific consent for, Riley Rose, but touching you while you’re unconscious isn’t one of them.”

I thought he’d mindfucked me before, I really did. But that leaves my brain twisted into such a knot, I lose the power of speech.

He turns to the bathtub and tests the water with his hand. Satisfied it’s the right temperature, he shuts off the faucet and straightens. “You can’t get your sutures wet, so the water will only cover your legs. I’ll wash your hair first.”

At the opposite end of the bathtub from the faucet is a small wood stool, a clear plastic pitcher, and a large, oblong metal bucket. Gesturing toward the bucket, he says, “Tip your head over the edge of the tub.”

Then he tugs at my sleep shirt again.

“Mal, I can’t. I can’t get naked in front of you. If this wound doesn’t kill me, the embarrassment will.”

“Embarrassment over what?”

“You seeing me naked!”

“I’ve already seen you naked. I just explained that.”

“You haven’t seen me naked while I’m awake!”

“So you want to smell like a pig pen, is that it?”

“No!”

“Then let me give you a bath.”

“You say that like I’m the unreasonable one!”

“The faster you get over your useless modesty, the faster this will be done.”

“Mal—”

“I promise I won’t look at anything, how’s that?”

“Right. You won’t look at anything while you’re washing my hair and all my naked parts. I’m sure that will be very easy for you.”

“Easier than living with your stench.”

“You know what? I just decided I hate you.”

“Hate me all you want in the bathtub.”

We stand in silence after that. Him waiting patiently, me glaring daggers at his head. I get the sense he’d wait until the end of time before speaking again, so I go first.

“Can’t you understand what this must be like for me?”

“Yes, I can. And I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But you’re not steady enough to get in and out of the tub by yourself or lift the pitcher to rinse your hair. I doubt you even have the strength to lift a bar of soap.”

He seems sincere, but I narrow my eyes at him anyway.

This is a man who kills people for a living. I’m sure he’s quite the accomplished liar.

“I won’t force you,” he says softly. “It’s your choice. I just want to help you feel better. I think a bath will do that.”

“So I could ask you to take me back to bed, and you will?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t hesitate, which makes a dent in my hostility. I glance at the water longingly, imagining what it would be like to sink into it. To wash the ripe smells of sickness and stale sweat off my skin.

“Fuck it,” I mutter. Then I turn and give him a hard look. “But don’t make it weird!”

He’s smart enough not to respond to that.

When he turns his back, it confuses me. “What are you doing?”

“Would you prefer I stare at you while you take off your nightgown?”

Look who’s decided to be a gentleman.

Sighing, I remove my glasses and set them on the sink. This will be easier if I can’t see anything. Then I grab the neckline of the sleep shirt and try to pull it over my head. It’s a struggle and leaves me breathless, but I manage it.

When I’m standing there in my underwear, I cross my arms over my chest and whisper, “Okay.”

He turns, picks me up in his arms, and lowers me slowly into the water, kneeling down beside the tub until I’m all the way in, sitting up with my legs sticking out in front of me.

Covering my breasts with my arms, I bow my head.

He murmurs, “I’m going to help you lie back.”

I nod. I feel burning and tingling in my cheeks and know they’re scarlet.

Supporting my shoulders with an arm around them, he lowers my upper body until I’m resting against the back of the tub. I know I look ridiculous in panties that are now wet, but at least they’re black, so he can’t see right through them.

He cradles my head in his hand and asks if I want a towel to support my neck.

“Yes, please.”

I’ve never spoken two more difficult words. My self-consciousness is searing.

He places a rolled-up hand towel under my neck. Then he dips the pitcher into the bathwater and tips it over my head, massaging my scalp as the warm water runs through my hair.

It feels so good, I almost groan aloud in pleasure. But that’s nothing compared to the bliss I experience when he works shampoo through my hair with both his hands.

His fingers are strong and gentle. He takes his time, making circles with his thumbs at my temples, stroking under the back of my head and neck, lightly squeezing the muscles at the base of my skull as he lathers my hair.

I spend a brief moment worried I might be drooling, but quickly surrender to the loveliness of it, the overwhelming luxury of the sensation. After less than a full minute, I feel drunk. Exhaling, I drop my arms from my chest and let my hands float by my hips in the water.

Mal starts to talk to me.

The pace unhurried and the tone low, he speaks in Russian. It sounds like he’s telling a story or explaining something important. I know it’s on purpose, that he’s deliberately not speaking English so I won’t understand, but somehow it doesn’t bother me.

He continues to speak as he rinses my hair. The water splashing into the metal tub sounds like rain on a rooftop. He speaks as he dips a bar of soap and a washcloth into the water. Speaks as he gently washes my arms, armpits, chest, and neck.

By the time he’s washing my feet, kneading my soles with those strong fingers, I’m in a stupor. My head lolls sideways. My eyes are closed. My breaths are slow and deep.

And still, he’s talking.

I don’t ask what he’s saying. I don’t want to break the spell.

He has to prop me up to wash my back. I sag against his arm, my chin hanging over his bent elbow. I feel boneless. Gelatinous. Like he could bend me into a pretzel, and it wouldn’t hurt.

When he’s finished washing and rinsing my body, he runs the washcloth over my face and behind my ears.

“Open your eyes, little bird,” he murmurs in English.

My lids drift open. His face is inches away. His expression is tortured.

My voice faint because it’s coming from outer space, I say, “Are you okay?”

He shakes his head, but doesn’t explain. “I’m going to lift you out of the water. Do you think you can stand up?”

I consider it, then nod. “Not for long, though.”

He lifts me from the tub and sets me on my feet on the bath mat, keeping a steadying hand on my hip as he reaches for a towel. Working fast, he dries me off with gentle, clinical efficiency, then wraps the towel around my body and picks me up again.

I rest my head against his shoulder and close my eyes as he brings me back to bed.

When he’s got me arranged comfortably on the mattress, he opens the towel enough to change the dressing on my wound, leaving my breasts and panties covered.

I watch him work, wondering why he’s doing any of this.

“Mal?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

That stops him cold. He glances up at me, his eyes dark, his brows drawn together. Storm clouds gather over his head.

“Don’t thank me.”

“Why not?”

“You were shot because of me.”

“I’m alive because of you.”

His lips thin. He closes his eyes, exhales a short, aggravated breath through his nostrils, then opens his eyes again and glares at me.

“No. I’m alive because of you. Because you took a bullet meant for me. Don’t get it confused in your head. And don’t thank me.”

Glowering, he goes back to work.

“Am I allowed to thank you for taking away the big scary moose?”

When he glances up at me, eyes flashing, I say, “I mean elk.”

“Be. Quiet.”

I whisper, “Because I really hated that thing.”

He mutters something in Russian that doesn’t sound nice then finishes changing the bandage on my belly. He uses medical tape to make it stick. Rising, he goes to the closet and returns with a black Henley identical to the one he’s wearing.

He helps me sit upright and gets me into the shirt.

It’s huge, comfy, and smells like him. I might never take it off.

“Lie back.”

I do as he commands, watching his face as he pulls the shirt down over my hips, then removes the towel from around me, pulling it out from under my body. When that’s done, he says, “Panties on or off?”

Instead of answering, I lift my hips.

He pulls the wet panties off, reaching under the shirt to get to them, then sliding them down my legs. Along with the towel, he takes them into the bathroom.

When he returns, I’m yawning. He pulls the bedcovers over me and tucks me in.

He bends and kisses me on the forehead. Then he returns to the leather chair in the corner and sits down, folding his hands over his stomach and closing his eyes.

“Mal?”

“What?”

“Were you really going to kill me?”

He doesn’t answer. I take his silence as a yes. I yawn again, nestling down against the pillow, snug and clean and exhausted.

I fall asleep with my silent assassin caretaker watching over me, keeping me safe.

This time when I dream of gunfire, he’s there to protect me with a shield and a flaming sword.