Page 106 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

Eleven? I had to have been knocked out for upward of twelve hours.

“You needed the rest,” he said, reading my thoughts.

“Yeah. Also explains why everything hurts.”

“Did you take your meds?”

“Not yet. I wanted to eat first.”

“I’ll nuke everything. Sit.”

With that, we ate French toast, eggs, and slightly soggy bacon and hash browns, talking mostly about the horrible documentary he left on the TV which he’d seen—and I can’t make this up—four times.

“So, what’re my instructions for bathing?”

“I’m going to need to wash your hair for you in the sink for a while. You’ve got to try to keep those stitches as dry as possible. Other than that, we just have to wrap up your cast. Want to take a bath? I bought all that fancy bath shit.”

‘All that fancy bath shit’ included six different bath bombs in varying colors, shapes, and scents, two different kinds of bubble bath, a loofah, and under-eye masks.

So he drew the bath with all the ingredients as he gently washed my hair in the kitchen sink, rinsing away all the dried blood and rubbing my scalp.

“Gonna need you to quit making those noises,” he said, voice raspy as he took the sprayer to the soapy strands.

And as much as a certain part of me ached at the sound of his voice, my body was too tired and achy, so I kept my mouth shut and let him dry my hair, then part it down the center, carefully brushing and twisting it into braids on each side.

“This will keep the hair away from the stitches.”

“How did you learn to braid?”

To that, he snorted. “My sister forced me to make friendship bracelets and shit with her when she was little. I guess some of it stuck.”

With that, he led me into the bathroom and helped me undress. Instead of the usual hunger, there was a tightness in his jaw and around his eyes as he looked at the mottled bruise across my stomach.

“And once you get out, you can change into this cloud-like ridiculousness,” he said, producing a long-sleeve top and bottom set of the fluffiest material I’d ever seen in a crisp white with little daisies printed on it. “And these.” He piled fluffy socks on top of the pile.

“You thought of everything.”

“I want you to be comfortable,” he said as he turned off the tap, then ripped open the package and carefully placed the under-eye masks on my skin.

“Mission accomplished.” I paused, watching him for a second. “Are we going to talk about it?” I asked.

Gav drew in a deep breath. “Eventually. But not right now. Maybe over that absurd dinner you requested.”

So we didn’t talk about it.

Not as we sat on the couch, watched a show, then read our books. Not after I woke up from a little nap and snacked on junk food.

But when there was a knock on the door sometime later and Gav let Leo into the room, I had a feeling the discussion was imminent.

“I grabbed the pizz—Jesus Christ,” he said as his eyes landed on me. “Oh, sweetheart.”

I barely knew this man.

But he looked wrecked at the idea of what happened to me.

“I’m okay.”

His eyes tightened. “I thought I was picking up the wrong order with all this,” he said. “But now I see why you need all the comfort food.”