out of it, but he’d already probed it with his good hand and, other than a few lumps and some split skin here and there, everything seemed to still be there. His nose wasn’t broken, but the rest of his face didn’t feel so good. But the split on his cheek and along one eyebrow felt like they were healing, and his jaw, though sore as hell, didn’t feel damaged beyond the bruising. One side of his mouth was still messed up, and he imagined he didn’t look terribly lovely at the moment, but ultimately all of the damage felt minimal. A quick run of the tongue had told him his teeth were all intact. Always a bonus.
His wrists and ankles burned like hell, but with Tate’s quick and thorough attention and ointment, they were healing quickly. That left his legs. It was too dark in the room to see them clearly, and he couldn’t bend at the waist to reach down past his knees, but a gingerly flex of one ankle, then the other, then one knee, then the other, told him they were in pretty much the same condition as the rest of him. Beaten and bruised, but not broken. Still, he wasn’t keen on immediately relying on them to hold him upright. Not without at least a little support. His head felt clearer despite the pounding, but the physical exhaustion he felt was still pretty keen. He knew he’d be wobbly from pain and fatigue, and falling right now would not be well received by any part of his anatomy.
He debated caving, and calling out for Tate, at least for help in getting him upright and to the bathroom. Why he resisted, he wasn’t sure.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. As it happened, there seemed to be one part of his body that was functioning quite fine, thank you very much. He chalked it up to something like early morning hard-on syndrome, even though he knew damn well it hadn’t started until he’d thought about watching Tate sleep. And just in case he thought about trying to lie to himself about that, the very act of thinking about it right now made him twitch.
Yeah. It was going to be humbling enough just getting himself to the bathroom. He didn’t need to do it with her trying not to look at his raging hard-on, while he did it. He also needed that little problem to subside between here and there, and despite the potential shrinking factor her presence might have on his ego, something told him having Tate in the room, touching him in any way, was not going to help diminish anything else.
He eyed the chair she’d been sitting in earlier. It was too far away to even use his toes to drag it any closer. So that was out as a possible support while he stood for the first time. The bed had no footboard or headboard to use for bracing his weight against. Which left the nightstand. Which was located to his left now that he was sitting upright with his feet on the floor, and therefore out of play, as his left arm was in a sling. Wonderful.
He was debating on pushing himself to a stand and angling himself toward the chair as he launched himself upright, but it would also be on his left. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, already feeling the effects from just sitting upright for this long. If he didn’t find some way to get himself going, he wouldn’t be going anywhere.
“Derek?”
The overhead light flipped on a moment later making him wince as the sudden glare brought a whole new level of throb back to his headache. “Don’t,” was all he said.
The room went instantly dark, but a moment later, the nightstand lamp on the opposite side of the bed clicked on, bathing the room in a much softer glow. “Better?”
“Mmm,” was all he could manage.
“I’d ask what the hell you think you’re doing, but I’m guessing there’s no point in that.”
Her voice was still coming from behind him, on the opposite side of the bed, and for that, at least, he was grateful. He wasn’t a modest man, not in the least. His body was a tool for him, and, as such, he kept it in good shape. Beyond that, he didn’t much care what anyone thought of his appearance. He simply did whatever was needed to get the job done. To that end, it didn’t so much bother him that Tate was seeing him sitting there in nothing more than his skivvies, all battered and bruised. She’d already seen it all, as she’d been the one to take his muddied and torn clothes off in the first place.
But that was just the logical part of things. The part he controlled. What was suddenly out of his control, was his almost hyperawareness that he was sporting a whole lot of bare skin that would be available to her direct touch, if she were to so much as consider helping him get up and take even a single step. And his body’s reaction to that notion was also, apparently, well beyond his control. It was crazy, and he could chalk up that heightened sensitivity to everything from the aftereffects of being so heavily drugged, to the damage to his body, to the very difficult situation he’d landed them both in.
But why start lying to himself now?
“I need something to help me balance myself,” he told her, fighting to maintain a level voice. The frustration of his limitations was only compounded by his frustration with his lack of control over himself, but he didn’t need her to know any of that. “You wouldn’t happen to have kept your crutches along with your sling, would you? Just one would do.”
“And you need to balance yourself upright because why?”
He opted for directness. He tried not to snap the words, despite his rapid loss of patience. It wasn’t her he was impatient with. “Because I need to use your bathroom.”
Rather than give him a hard time, or, thank God, suggest an alternate solution that involved a bed pan of any kind, there was a silent pause, then she simply said, “Okay. I’ll be right back. Stay put.”
“Not a problem,” he muttered, but he could already hear her moving down the hall.
She returned a moment later. He felt her presence rather than saw it, as she paused in the bedroom doorway before entering. He tried to shift his weight to look over his shoulder, but that was asking a bit too much of his ribs at the moment. “What’s wrong?” he asked instead.
“Nothing,” she said, and came into the room and around his side of the bed. She was carrying a beautifully carved oak walking stick. The handle was a large, gnarled knot of wood, plenty big enough for his wide hand, and the stick itself was thick and sturdy.
He looked from the stick to her. She had no expression whatsoever on her face. Which told him far more than she likely thought it did.
“It’s beautiful,” he told her, quite sincerely. “More like a piece of art. You sure you want me handling it?”
“It’s the walking stick, or me.”
He reached out his good hand. “Thank you,” he said simply.
“You’re welcome,” she said just as simply, handing him the cane, which clearly was hers, and from the burnished shine on the head of the stick, it had been palmed often by her own hand. “Do you need any help levering yourself up?”
She was handling this about as well as anyone who couldn’t read his mind. Quite probably because she’d been faced with similar indignities in the past. And it was the quiet, simple dignity she was offering him that forced him to get past his own stupid issues with his renegade body parts and accept her offer. “I just need to get my weight over my knees, and I’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” She moved immediately, without needing to ask what to do, and sat next to him on his right side. “I don’t want to hurt your ribs, but I need to wedge my shoulder under your arm. You need to lean forward, as best you can, with your palm firmly wrapped around the cane. Use your thighs to push to a stand, staying bent at the waist as best as you can until you have your weight centered. Then slowly—slowly—straighten upright. I know it’s going to be hard with your ribs, but—”
“I can handle it,” he said, cutting off her string of instructions. Not because they were annoying or unnecessary. She was definitely the voice of authority here. No, he cut her off for quite the opposite reason. “Let’s give it a shot.”
“Wait,” she said, and got up again. She moved the stuffed chair until it was angled right in front of him. “If you lose your balance, I won’t be able to keep you upright.” She sat next to him again. “If