Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 112056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112056 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Guilt ate me alive as Elder caressed my cheek then twined his fingers into my hair. “You’ve gone quiet on me, little mouse.”
I closed my eyes, falling into him, kissing him. “I love you, too. So much.”
Chuckling beneath my lips, he groaned. “I love hearing you say that. Say it again.”
Another kiss. “I love you, Elder Prest.” And another.
His groan turned to a growl. “Okay, we’ll stay. One more night. Now kiss me again and make me forget where I am.”
Chapter Eleven
______________________________
Elder
KISSING PIMLICO MADE energy drench my bruised and bellowing limbs.
Her touch made me think I could easily climb from this godforsaken bed and carry her out of here. Her taste made me believe I was cured. Her mews and moans made sex infinitely more appealing than returning to the Phantom so fast.
Why leave yet?
We had a bed and privacy.
I intend to put it to use.
The longer we kissed, the more I sank into the pillows and yanked her closer.
I needed her. I wanted her. My pain vanished under the weight of it.
Placing her on top of me, I hissed between my teeth as blades of agony knocked on my skull—hinting that the pain might not have vanished, after all.
Her hands pressed against my chest, bruising cracked ribs, arguing against my insistence at having her close.
Her mouth danced with mine but with hesitation.
I breathed harder, arching my hips into hers to show her exactly what I wanted and to stop denying me.
But then, the spinning returned. That damn fucking spinning that sent me under last time. The hypnotic black and white spiral, stealing gravity and my innards and hurling them around and around in a washing machine of sickness.
Kisses turned from miraculous healing to energy draining. Fighting her switched from adventurous to exhausting.
Spinning, spinning, spinning.
One moment, I was kissing her.
The next…I was not.
Chapter Twelve
______________________________
Pimlico
HAVING ELDER PASS out mid-kiss affected not just my worry but also my ego—some superficial part of me that believed my presence was enough to cure him was slapped back to reality and given a stern talking-to.
A kiss would not heal him.
Only a doctor could.
Tess had been right.
Rest had done him a world of good. But now, his injuries needed tending to and food needed to be consumed. And the only way to do that was to enlist the experts.
Leaving Elder unconscious once again, I waited until dawn switched to acceptable morning politeness and padded downstairs to the kitchen.
There, I found Q dressed in a striking blue suit with graphite shirt and maroon tie, laughing with a plump lady who I assumed was the cook.
Their French quips and inside jokes stopped the moment I intruded. His face lost the ease of conversing with family and slipped into a polite mask of helpfulness. “Bonjour, Pimlico. Comment allez-vous?”
I knew enough basic one-liners to understand he’d asked how I was.
I nodded with a mirroring smile. “I’m fine.” I would’ve much rather bumped into Tess to tell her what I needed rather than her husband, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Taking a deep breath, I asked, “Do you mind calling a doctor? Or radioing the Phantom and asking Dr. Michaels to come? Elder is unconscious again, and I think he needs better care than what I can provide.”
Immediately, he put down his coffee and reached into his blazer breast pocket for his cell phone. “Of course. I’ll call my personal physician immediately.” Kissing the cook on her two flour-dusted round cheeks, he murmured something in French then passed me while pressing digits on his phone. “He’ll be here in thirty minutes. Wait upstairs. I’ll send him to you.”
He didn’t even wait for my thanks.
A whirlwind of efficiency, he was out the door and onto whatever vigilante endeavours or business dealings he favoured.
* * * * *
The day passed in yet another blur. Q’s doctor arrived and briskly stripped Elder down.
He assessed his bruises, bumps, and breaks, reset his bent finger, checked the strappings on his chest, noted his fever, then turned his attention to the stitches in Elder’s gunshot wound.
I kept a hand clamped over my lips as the doctor washed out the wound and re-stitched two areas that’d come undone.
I could handle my own broken bones and gushing blood. But seeing Elder’s…it hurt because I didn’t want him to be in pain. I wanted to take it away, and I couldn’t.
All I could do was hope and wait and beg him to be okay.
Once tended and tutted over, the doctor cleaned Elder’s injuries with antibacterial gel and secured yet another bandage over his stitches to keep the skin supple enough to knit together without forming too proud a scar.
I hated that Elder didn’t wake up while the doctor fussed and fixed. His eyelids didn’t twitch, his body didn’t jolt even when an IV needle was inserted into the back of his hand to deliver a drip full of antibiotics and glucose.