I lingered beneath the hot spray long after I’d washed away the grime and blood from the last few days, wishing that it would somehow cleanse me of the memories that even now made me shudder. At one point it was impossible to tell if the moisture on my cheeks was from the shower or angry tears, and I was glad no one was there to witness my weakness. By the time I emerged and wrapped a large towel around my body, my skin was almost raw and I’d begun to resemble a giant prune.
The drugs Alyssa had supplied me with had taken the edge off the pain, but it was going to be a while before I was anywhere close to being back to normal. With the wolf’s healing abilities suppressed, it would be some time before the cuts and scrapes on my hands and knees began to fade to fine pink scars that would eventually disappear, and even longer for my more severe injuries to heal. I didn’t relish the thought of the days of pain that were ahead of me.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I studied the woman in the glass through the haze of steam, seeing a steeliness in my reflection that hadn’t been there just days before. The collection of black and purple bruises littering my body were a testament to the beating Johnson had given me, while the livid bruise and swelling on my cheek made me look like a battered housewife. Fingering the dark splotch across my ribs and the bright blue stitches running the length of the slash in my side, I clenched my teeth against the pain. I’m no glutton for pain—I find it as unpleasant as the next girl—but in that moment, as I stared at my reflection, I reveled in the buzz of pain rushing through my veins, bolstering my spirits and giving my anger new purpose.
Wrinkling my nose in disgust at the variety of smells wafting up from the stained denim, I pulled on my jeans from the night before sans panties, wishing I had my things from the hotel.
I’d kill for a clean pair of underwear.
Attempting to put on my bra led to a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush before I tossed the offending garment aside and decided that anyone who didn’t like it could kiss my furry ass. Picking up the t-shirt I’d borrowed from Alyssa, I gave it a tentative sniff and frowned. Smelling of blood, sweat, and antiseptic it was a sharp reminder of the previous night. There was no way in hell I was doing anything with it besides throwing it in the trash, or maybe setting it on fire.
After slapping a fresh gauze pad over my pretty line of stitches, I attempted to wind the bandages around my ribs. Even using the mirror, the act proved to be as successful as putting on my bra had been, and ended with the bandages in a crumpled ball in the sink. All the while I kept my mind busy plotting how I was going to make Johnson suffer for what he’d done. I’d never had broken ribs before, and it’s not something I’d recommend.
Limiting myself to short breaths to ease the sensation that someone was trying to dislodge each of my ribs with a sledgehammer, I turned my attention to my topless conundrum. Glancing around the room, I spotted the door to Holbrook’s closet standing ajar on the opposite side of the room.
It’ll have to do.
Rifling through his shirts, feeling far too much like a creepy stalker for comfort, I snagged the first thing that didn’t look as though it would make me look like a little girl playing dress up in her daddy’s clothes. The lavender colored brushed cotton shirt was like silk as I slid it over my shoulders, and I wasn’t able to resist stroking the fabric covetously before buttoning it. Finishing off the look with a loose braid that I left to trail over one shoulder, I studied my reflection one last time and decided that I didn’t look half bad. Well, if you ignored the ugly bruise covering a good portion of my face and the swollen split in my lip.
Bah, who am I kidding? Miss America, I’m not.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I said, fingering the hem of the shirt when I ventured out into the living room. “I haven’t had a chance to visit the laundromat yet.”
Looking up from where he sat on the couch reading through what looked to be some kind of report, Holbrook let his eyes trail over me in a slow pass, lingering where the shirt gaped open to reveal the first hint of cleavage. The heat gathering in their forest depths made me think he might reply with a huskily spoken innuendo, but instead he just nodded and said, “Not at all.”
Quashing the small of glimmer of disappointment before it took root, I asked, “So, what’s the plan?”
“We tell Santos the truth, and then we nail Johnson’s ass,” he replied with a vehemence that made me glad I was not on the receiving end of his anger. Something dark and dangerous flickered in his expression, there one moment and gone the next, but whatever it was, I saw enough of it to know that he was not a man to be trifled with.
Chapter 21