“I can eat.”
“Good. Then I’ll be right back.” She adjusts my blanket, pulling it up a bit higher from where it dropped. I follow her gaze as she does and enjoy the sight of her cheeks reddening even further.
My chest is exposed, and she is enjoying the view.
“I can get up,” I tell her, and she shakes her head forcefully.
“Are you kidding? No! You cannot get up,” she mockingly scolds, all while smiling. “You know you were shot, right?”
“Me? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m perfect.” I laugh.
“You are the worst patient ever. That’s what you are. Just sit, and I’ll get you something to eat.” With that, she walks out of the room.
I’m alone briefly before Gideon walks in. The first thing I notice is that his hair is disheveled. The next is he has dark circles under his eyes.
“How’s the patient?” he asks before crossing the space.
“Fine. Fuck. Why does everyone keep asking me?”
“Well—” He looks me up and down with a bemused look on his face.
“Yep. Got it. I’m in bed, shot. I know. I know. But fuck, I’m fine.”
“If I were you, I’d milk it.” He waggles his brows suggestively.
“Milk what?”
“You know what? If I had Skye Matthews wanting to play nursemaid—”
“For fuck’s sake, Gideon. Shut the fuck up before I have to get out of this bed, stitches or not, and kick your ass.”
He laughs. The fucker laughs.
Just as I’m about to respond with another threat to rip his throat out for even thinking about Skye in that way, there’s a knock on the door, which then squeaks open an inch.
“Can I come in?”
“I’ll be getting out of your hair.” Gideon waggles his damn eyebrows at me. “Word of advice. Let her take care of you and then fu—”
“Get out, now.” Gideon once again chuckles, but at least he leaves.
Skye smiles at him, clearly having no idea what he just said. She walks back toward me, but this time, she’s carrying a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other.
She places the bowl on the side table before sitting on the edge of my bed, right next to me. Then she’s dipping the spoon in the oatmeal.
“What are you doing?” I ask. Please tell me she’s not trying to feed me.
She looks at me, her expression serious, and then rolls her eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”
I reach my hand out and touch hers, trailing my fingers down her forearm that holds the spoon still dipped in the bowl. I squeeze lightly. “Not to me.”
“Were you hit in the head or something?” Her tone is mocking, but I can see how her lip tips up. She wants to smile.
“Nope, just shot.”
With her other hand, she removes my fingers from where they are wrapped around her wrist. I drop my hand. “I’m feeding you,” she playfully orders.
“I’m not a child, Skye.”
Placing the spoon back in the bowl, she lets out a sigh before looking at me. Her gaze is fierce. Protective. “I need to take care of you.” Her voice even more so.
“I don’t—” I start to say, but then I see something that makes my breath hitch in my chest. Her eyes appear misted like she’s holding back tears.
“Let me take care of you.” Her voice has changed. This tone tells me she’s scared, and this is something she has to do. She needs this. I understand. I felt the same way about her. After all this time, being near her was something I had to do, and now that she knows, I won’t let her go. I nod my head, hating it but giving it to her anyway.
She resumes her task, and I silently pray Gideon doesn’t return. Although knowing that bastard, he would be all for it if it got me laid.
I let her feed me.
Even though I don’t want to. We are both quiet as she does. The moment settles upon us, but it’s not uncomfortable.
“Do you hurt?” she finally asks, breaking the silence.
“No.”
She places the spoon down in the bowl. “Are you sure?”
“Skye, trust me when I say this. After everything I’ve been through, this is merely a scratch.”
Her blue eyes look huge right now, but it’s the way her mouth forms an O that has me laughing.
“You were shot.” She scoffs.
“I was clipped.” I shrug.
“It went through you!”
“Again”—I take her free hand in mine, raise it to my mouth, and place a kiss on her palm—“I promise this isn’t the worst of what I’ve been through.”
“With your uncle?” I nod. “Want to talk about it?”
“Not particularly.” The last thing I want to do is talk about the past when I have Skye sitting beside me.
“We have nothing else to talk about right now.” She has a point, but I don’t want to burden her with my past. While she was raised in a loving household with an adoptive dad who clearly cared for her, I was raised by my uncle, who wanted to mold me into a villain.