Page 18 of Dr Feel Good
I swept my gaze over her. My silk pajama top hung off her slender frame, revealing the tattoos on her chest. Defacing such beautiful skin was a fucking travesty.
“You’re probably a high school dropout caught up in the criminal underworld since your teenage years. More than likely shot because of a deal gone bad.”
Her hard stare captured my gaze and wouldn’t let go. “You have all the fucking answers, don’t you?”
“As a general rule,” I bit out.
A flush swept over her face, neck, and chest. She tried to shove me, but cried out in pain, losing her color as quickly as it had risen. I quickly set the bowl on the nightstand, got to my feet, and felt her forehead, turning into her caregiver before I thought better of it.
Her warmth concerned me. I’d take her into the living room, where it was cooler. She could sit on the sofa while I ate my soup.
I bent to lift her, but she tried to shove me away.
“Get away from me!” she demanded.
“I don’t take orders,” I said brusquely. Ignoring her outraged protest, I snatched her into my arms and stormed to the living room.
Fuck, it was beyond cold. It was downright freezing because after all the smoke from my cooking, I’d allowed it to die completely.
Sighing and mindful of her injuries, I put her on the sofa and set to work. Aware of her.Tooaware.
“For your information,” I began, so frustrated I threw the two logs harder than necessary, “I have garlic powder and Italian seasoning for special occasions.”
Spices were a safe topic, something that shouldn’t inflame her nasty little temper.
“Pepper is a spice,” she conceded. “But salt is a mineral historically used to preserve food, not a spice.”
Pausing, I glanced over my shoulder, ignoring her smirk.
“Don’t pretend you know…”
Hell, why was I about to argue with her?
No, I wouldn’t debate with her. She wasn’t my fucking type. Even if she wasn’t a fucking criminal, I was fairly certain she had a socio-economic background similar to Iris.
I required educated women as my submissives, so being unwillingly impressed by her knowledge just worsened my mood. I didn’t want to be attracted to her, and though her words were a well-known fact, criminals often lacked education, and sometimes, common sense.
“I made my food how my mother taught me and my siblings,” I said in exasperation, anxious to eat my soup.
As soon as I started the fire, I would leave her to continue critiquing the flavor profile of what she’d eaten.
“So, when you assess my cooking, you’re evaluating recipes near and dear to my family’s heart,” I continued, focusing on my task instead of her face.
In truth, it was our family’s cook who taught us the recipe on the urging of our parents, but she didn’t need to know that information. Nor did she need to know that at one time, flavorful food was a staple on my family’s table, until my father decided to have an affair with the luscious young cook. After that trollop was fired, an older, less attractive woman was hired and ordered to use limited spices so as not to stir up ugly memories. It was an adjustment that my siblings and I complained about, but after three decades, I’d lost the high spice tolerance that I’d possessed as a child.
“Then your entire family must be allergic to spice. By the way, donotask questions you don’t want to know the answer to.”
Retreating from an argument wasn’t something I normally did, but the back and forth was going nowhere. After I got the fire started, I wanted to try to contact the outside world. Ideally, I’d be able to reach an emergency responder who could arrange for Athena to be airlifted to the hospital.
As the flames roared to life, warming the chilled room, I returned to her side and felt her forehead. She’d cooled down and I heaved a relieved breath.
“On a scale of one to ten, what do you rate your pain?”
“Fifty.”
“I don’t have a lot of pain meds left, so I can spare one for you now, or I can give you a sleeping pill.”
“You’re rationing pain pills?”
