Chapter Sixteen

Natasha

A gentle hand cups my cheek. My skin feels like it's about to crack into a thousand pieces, but that touch…I lean into it, desperate for more. This is a dream. It has to be. I'm alone. I'm always alone.

"Open your eyes, baby. I need you to drink some water for me."

Doc.

It takes more effort than it should to lift my heavy lids. I lock onto the blue depths of his gaze. This is real. He's real.

The furrow between his brows eases, and he smiles. "There you are. I'm going to help you sit up. Take it slow."

He slides his arm behind my back. The pale beige walls start to pulse with my heartbeat. As the blankets fall away, I catch sight of the plain, black t-shirt covering my body. It's not mine.

I'm so confused. I shouldn't be here. I was supposed to leave at sunrise. But…I woke up shivering—and sweating—at 4:00 a.m. I got in the shower. Or…did I? I remember taking off my clothes. The thick bandage over my hip was bloody. And oozing.

Doc puts his back to the headboard and settles me against his chest. I should complain about the position. About him holding the bottle of water like I'm helpless. But my arms don't want to work and this just feels so…nice. Real.

Then I get a sip. Ice cold. A weak moan escapes between swallows. This might be the best thing I've ever tasted.

"You were damn lucky," he says when I've had my fill. His voice rumbles through me, rich and comforting. "If I hadn't come home when I did…" He tightens an arm around my waist and buries his face in my hair. "You had a fever of a hundred and two, Nat. I couldn't get you to wake up."

Pain bleeds from his every word. I want to tell him I'm fine. That he doesn't need to worry about me. And something else. There's something else I should say. But I can't figure out what it is.

"I gave you IV fluids. A shot of antibiotics. The infection hasn't spread—that I can tell. But sepsis was—still is—a possibility. If your fever doesn't break in the next few hours, I'm taking you to the hospital."

"No." I can't manage more than a hoarse whisper. I know what I need to say now. "Have to leave…"

"You're in no condition to get out of this bed. Let alone leave town." He's not as gentle now. Almost…angry. With me? "You popped two stitches. And you didn't stick around the hospital long enough to get the antibiotics they prescribed for you. What the hell were you thinking?"

He wants to snap at me? I'll snap back. Or try to. "You almost died. Because of me. Can't let that happen again." My words would be so much more effective if there were any strength behind them. Or if three sentences didn't completely exhaust me.

For several minutes, Doc holds me. His breathing is uneven, almost jerky against my back. I wish I could see his face. Or apologize. But I don't know what to say. Instead, I focus on a handful of dust particles illuminated by a ray of sunlight coming through the window. It's late afternoon from the angle. God. How long was I out?

"I need to clean your wound," he says softly, his lips close to my ear. "Make sure the infection isn't getting worse. I'll be right back."

Doc eases me down onto my side, and I watch him leave the room. He moves slowly. Carefully. I cut a hole in his chest not more than thirty-six hours ago. And now, he's taking care of me.

He returns with a steaming bowl of water and sets it on the nightstand among bandages, antibiotic cream, and several precisely folded white cloths. Carefully, he arranges the blankets to expose my hip, but nothing…indecent, then sits next to me.

I stare down at my bare legs. I vaguely remember standing in the shower. Wrapping myself in a towel. But now, I'm wearing one of his shirts. And nothing else. "Did you…? Was I…naked?" Flames lick up my cheeks. I shouldn't have asked. I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

"All I found in your bag was a cashmere sweater and two pairs of socks. That's the softest shirt I own. I wasn't sure you'd want to wake up in a pair of my boxers." Doc shrugs, dips one of the white cloths into the water, and wrings it out before removing a thick, white bandage from my hip. "This is going to hurt. I'm sorry."

When the compress hits my skin, I whimper and turn my face into the pillow.

"Breathe. I promise it'll be over soon." With his free hand, Doc rubs slow circles up and down my back. The steady, rhythmic motion calms my racing heart. "Want to tell me how you broke in? And why?"

"Not while you're trying to parboil me," I mumble.

Anger stiffens my shoulders at his laugh, but before I can snap at him, he starts to wheeze. The compress falls away a second later.

"Fucking…hell." He reaches down and comes up with a portable oxygen tank. One twist of his fingers, and the thing hisses as he holds the mask over his nose and mouth.

"Oh, God. Doc? What?—"

He shakes his head, then takes my hand and holds on tight. After another minute—maybe two—he drops the mask and shuts off the airflow. "I'm okay," he says, though the strain in his voice doesn't reassure me. "Oxygen is standard…after a pneumothorax. But maybe…don't make me laugh again…for a while. My ribs hurt like hell."

Tears prick at my eyes. He's in terrible pain, but he half carried me to his bed, got me into one of his shirts, and God knows what else. I have a vague memory of screaming in pain at one point. But nothing more than snatches as I faded in and out.

Doc spreads a thin layer of antibiotic cream over the new stitches, then tapes a fresh bandage in place. "Are you hungry? I don't have much in the house. Broth. Ice cream. Club soda. I was supposed to be on the island until tomorrow. But I can get something delivered."

I grab his forearm, digging my fingers into the corded muscles. "No. You're not safe here. We're not safe here."

He stares at me for a beat. "I was Air Force Pararescue for seventeen years, Nat. I can handle myself. Even now. There's no way I'm letting anyone get to you again."

The fever is making it hard to think. If I'm not careful, I'll tell him too much. Or not enough. But I have to make him understand. If Bastian has any idea who Doc is, it's only a matter of time before he shows up here.

My stomach rumbles before I can figure out what to say. Doc pulls the blankets up to my chest and tucks them around me. "Broth to start. And after that, you can tell me who's after you."

Six hours. I spent six hours stretched out on the bed next to her. Sleeping in fits and starts between cool compresses on her forehead. Hot ones on her thigh to draw out the infection. Fresh stitches. Fluids. Antibiotics.

I've had enough ibuprofen to eat a hole in my stomach lining. Plus three oxygen treatments. My entire body aches, and more than once, I've contemplated taking something stronger. But I have to stay alert. If for no other reason than to reassure Nat that she's safe here. And stop her from running again. I have no doubt that as soon as she can stand, she'll try to leave.

The last rays of the setting sun streak the sky. Red and orange so vibrant, the sight would take my breath away—if I had any to spare.

Bone broth bubbles on the stove, the rich scent comforting. I add a handful of spices, then find a package of noodles in the cabinet to dump in at the last minute. She needs calories. Hell, we both do. I haven't eaten since that godawful hospital breakfast they forced on me early this morning.

I have half a mind to order pizza right now. But someone coming to the door might send her over the edge. She was spooked enough to run without even waiting for me to wake up yesterday.

So why the hell did she break in to my house less than twenty-four hours later?

The answer comes as I'm ladling the soup into bowls.

I'm not a threat to her. But she thinks Hidden Agenda is. She's not wanted. She said as much on the plane, and I believe her. So why would she be afraid of them?

"Doc?" She limps into the kitchen like a drunken sailor, almost hitting the wall more than once. A pair of my navy blue boxers peeks out from the hem of the t-shirt. "Please. We have to go. I need…my clothes."

"Wasn't up to doing laundry today." I stalk over to her, take her arm, and lead her to the small dining table. "Sit. The soup is almost done."

"No."

"Dammit, Nat. You're shaking. You can't do anything but sit. You're lucky I can't carry you right now or you'd be back in bed already."

With the back of my hand, I check her forehead. The fever hasn't broken. If she doesn't respond to the antibiotics soon, I'll have to decide if I call an ambulance or swallow my pride and reach out to Hidden Agenda. My SUV is still at the marina in Kenmore.

"Fine," she says on a sigh. "But it's almost dark?—"

"What the fuck does the time of day have to do with anything?" Back at the stove, I shut off the burner and ladle the soup into bowls.

"If anyone knows I'm here, they'll come for me." Her voice trembles, and she sweeps her gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Someone could be watching the house. Even now. They could see me."

After setting the bowls on the table, I move to the windows and punch a button on the wall. It takes a full minute for the shades to hide the rest of the world from view. As they hit the halfway point, her words finally register.

"We have to go."

Not her. Both of us. She's worried about me. When we're hidden from view, I ask, "Better?"

She nods, though she doesn't look convinced. Her gaze follows me as I head for the fridge.

"I have water, coffee, and club soda."

"No beer?" she asks with a weak smile.

I force a deep breath—as deep as I can. "I'm sober. Four years."

"Shit. Sorry. I…Gladys told me that." Her hand trembles as she reaches for her napkin. Each knuckle bears a sickly yellow bruise. I almost lost her on Blakely. Then again to the fucking infection. Does she have any idea how close she came to dying?

"Gladys kept trying to get me to have a beer with her." I shake my head, wishing the old girl were here now to talk some sense into Nat. "Once I told her, she started offering me lemonade instead. So? What can I get you?"

"Water is fine. I really am sorry…"

Needing the ritual, I pull out the rocks glasses, add ice, and fill them from the tap before joining her at the table.

"You don't have to apologize." Shame has me picking up my spoon and digging into the soup rather than meeting Nat's gaze. "Six years ago, I lost someone. Drinking made being alone a hell of a lot easier. Or at least, I thought it did. Turns out, scotch is a fucking liar. Along with its sisters, whiskey, tequila, and vodka."

"Tessa?"

I snap my head up. "How?—?"

"The picture." Nat points to the mantle over the fireplace. Her cheeks turn bright red, and she drops her gaze to her bowl. "I didn't mean to pry. I just…I knew I'd never get a chance to see you again and I…"

A single tear glistens on her cheek. We're close enough for me to reach out and dash it away. "I met her when I was working in the ER in Los Angeles. She came in with a spiral fracture to her radius—it's a bone in the forearm. Her boyfriend had twisted it so hard…"

I can still see her sitting on the narrow bed, eyes downcast, shoulders hunched.

"She'd driven all the way from San Diego to get away from him. I treated her and gave her a card for one of the local women's shelters. I didn't think I'd ever see her again. But three months later, I ran into her at a coffee shop near the hospital. I almost didn't recognize her. She'd found a job, made a few friends—even signed a lease on an apartment. We talked for over an hour. Before I left to start my shift, she gave me her number."

"What happened to her?" Nat asks. From the hesitation in her voice, I wonder if she already knows.

"Her piece-of-shit ex tracked her down. He saw us together, and three days later, he broke into her apartment and…"

"I'm sorry, Doc."

Nat's hand covers mine. "You don't have to tell me."

"Yes. I do." Forcing a slow breath, I link our fingers. "He stabbed her thirty-seven times. Beat the shit out of her first. By the time I got there, she'd lost too much blood. I tried to save her, but…she died in my arms."

For several minutes, we sit in silence. I'm about to tell Nat to eat more when she clears her throat.

"Parker killed my brother."

Her eyes turn glassy as she disappears into her own memories. "Logan wasn't supposed to be there. I was. Parker came for me. But I'd gone for a run to clear my head before—" She reaches for her water and downs half the glass. "If I'd never left the apartment that night, my brother would be alive."

I wish I could change the subject. Ask about her favorite movies or books or whether she likes deep dish or thin crust. But this might be my only chance to get her to open up to me. I need to know why this asshole was hunting her. And who the fuck he was working for.

"Tell me why he was after you. Or hell. Tell me anything, Nat. I've been trying to know you for a year now."

Her flinch is the last straw. I'm tired of waiting for her to decide I'm a halfway decent guy. She knows enough about who I am now.

"You kissed me that night, remember? You took me back to your place. You had your hands under my shirt."

"I know." She won't meet my gaze, and her voice drops to a whisper. "I'll never forget it."

"The second you said ‘stop,' I stopped. I backed off. I wanted you. Fuck. I still want you. But I would have been happy just being your friend. Am I that much of an asshole, you couldn't even give me that?"

The pain in my chest is too much. I push away from the table. If I don't get some air, I'll say something I can't take back.

As I slip out the sliding glass door, Nat calls my name, and fuck if I don't want to run right back to her.