Then a nagging ache struck her temple and a dull pain which hinted at something more piercing dragged her back and she remembered.
She closed her eyes and twisted her neck on a half wince. She heard him curse and her eyes opened again.
His mouth was hard when she looked at him.
“Does it hurt?”
Did it hurt?
Her head and back, sure. She’d banged her head on a stone step and had a freaking werewolf claw through her jacket.
But she hurt other places worse and for reasons that she knew down to the depths of her mortal soul, those wounds would never heal.
She decided to answer his question. “Just a little bit.”
His handsome face softened and she wanted to scratch it with her nails. She wanted to lean into it and scream. And she wanted to tilt her head and kiss him. She couldn’t do any of those things and she hated him for it.
“I’m sorry but I need you to come with me, honey, just for a little bit. Then we’ll get you back into bed and you can sleep,” he told her and then before she could blink he was gone.
She stared at the place where he’d been, suddenly uncertain that he’d even been there.
Then he was back, the hides were pulled away and he put his large hands under her arms and tenderly lifted her from the bed.
When she was on her feet, she tipped her head back to look up at him and started, “Callum –”
“Lift your arms for me, little one,” he murmured, his hands up, holding a stretchy, pink cotton nightgown.
Since she was na**d (mostly) and a nightgown would be good, she did as she was told.
She winced when, at her movement, the dull pain became piercing.
“Fuck,” he hissed low at her wince, making fast work of pulling the nightgown over her head and then he commanded, “Arms down.”
Gratefully she lowered her arms as he carefully pulled the nightgown down her body, rounding to her side to yank it out before he tugged it down her back and it fell over her h*ps to her knees. She registered this vaguely as a novel experience, considering Callum was putting a nightgown on her rather than taking it off as, he’d stated repeatedly, he preferred her na**d in their bed and usually did something about it.
He sat her down the edge of the bed and she stared, this time in out and out shock, as he knelt in front of her and put thick, woolen gray socks on her feet.
King Callum kneeling at her feet.
He’d only knelt for her once but that was to put his mouth between her legs.
Now he was putting socks on her feet to ward away a chill.
Before she could cope with this, he took her hand and cautiously tugged her up from the bed and then leaned into her, reaching to the side as she reared back (trying not to look as if she did) and he brought up her cashmere robe.
“Now this,” he stated. “Turn around.”
She did as she was told, mainly so she wouldn’t glare at the robe which, if she had been thinking, should also have gone in the fire with her rings and her wolf. She was doubly glad she threw the wolf in the fire now that she knew he was her puppy and he hadn’t told her that, not for weeks. Not, apparently, for years (though, she wasn’t actually doubly glad, she’d miss her stuffed wolf like crazy).
He pulled her robe up her arms and, hands at her shoulders, turned her around and gently tied it closed.
When he was done, his hands came to her neck and with thumbs at the undersides of her jaw he tilted her head back to look at him.
“You can walk okay?” he asked quietly.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” he replied, his eyes soft. He took her hand in his and guided her out the door.