I don’t want the ugliness of my world to taint Sara in any way.
It takes me over twenty minutes to shower and change—with the numbing effects of adrenaline wearing off, my sore muscles and bruised ribs object to every movement—and by the time I get to Ilya’s room, Sara is halfway done with his stitches. I stop in the doorway and watch her work, enjoying the tiny frown of concentration on her face. I had cameras installed in her office at the hospital, so I’m intimately familiar with that expression. She’d often wear it when taking notes on her patients or reading some new study that had come out in her field.
“Hand me that gauze,” she tells Yan when she’s done, and I grin at her authoritative tone. My little bird is in her element, and for the first time in weeks, I see a hint of her former spark. Yan was right to suggest this; not only is having Sara take care of Ilya’s wound infinitely safer for us, but it’s good for her mood, too.
Her movements are quick and efficient as she bandages Ilya’s head, and my teammate closes his eyes, looking blissed out as the painkillers we gave him earlier kick in.
“Any other injuries?” Sara asks, glancing over her shoulder at me and Yan.
“I don’t think so, but I’ll check,” Yan says. “I know Anton caught a little shrapnel, so you might want to take a look at him. I think he’s in his room.”
She nods and gets up. “What about you, Peter?”
I want her hands on me, so I shrug and promptly wince from the movement. “Just some scrapes and bruises,” I say, doing my best to sound stoic but in pain.
Yan, who’s seen me walk around with broken bones without a peep, gives me an “are you f*cking kidding?” look, but is smart enough not to say anything as Sara frowns and comes up to me.
“Show me,” she orders, reaching for my shirt, but I catch her slender wrists before she can start an examination right then and there.
“How about we go to our room so I can sit down?” I suggest, ignoring Yan’s open eye roll. “We’ll be more comfortable there.”
Sara frowns up at me, apparently divining my agenda. “I still have to examine Anton. Here, sit.” Twisting her wrists out of my hold, she grabs my hand and leads me to a chair in the corner as Yan—the cock-blocking bastard—snickers quietly.
“Let me see,” Sara says, deftly pulling my shirt up over my head, and I wince for real as the movement pulls at my sore shoulder.
It’s all worth it, though, because in the next moment, Sara’s cool, gentle hands press against my torso, carefully feeling each rib for breaks. Her touch should hurt, but as her delicate fingers glide over my bruises, all I feel is a surge of warmth, mixed with an aching tightness in my groin.
“Does this hurt?” she murmurs as her hands move up to my shoulder, and I shake my head, mesmerized by the green striations in her soft hazel eyes.
“It’s just—” I clear my throat. “Just muscle soreness, I think.”
“Hmm.” Carefully, she lifts my arm and moves it in a circular motion. “No pain like this?”
“No.” I breathe in deeply, inhaling her sweet scent. “Just some soreness.”
“Okay.” She gently lowers my arm and, to my disappointment, steps back. “Looks like you’re right—it’s just some bruising.”
“I also scraped my back,” I say, turning to show her. “Might need to be bandaged.”
Sara leans in, her hands grazing my shoulders before moving down to mid-back, where I feel the faint stinging.
“This?” she asks, touching the wounded area lightly, and I nod, though the pain is barely noticeable.
“It looks like it’s already healing, so no bandage required,” Sara says as I turn back to face her. “I’m guessing someone already cleaned it?”
“Anton did that on the plane,” I admit grudgingly. For once, I wish my team and I weren’t so well versed in first aid. “Are you sure you don’t need to bandage it?”
“No. It will heal better like this. Anything else?”
I lift my hands to show her the scrapes on the bottom of my palms, and Yan bursts out laughing.
“What do you want her to do with that? Kiss it and make it better?” he says in Russian, ignoring my furious glare. “Seriously, man, you want to indulge in doctor-patient play, do it later. Let her finish treating actual wounds first.”
Sara frowns at us both before asking Yan, “What did you just say?”
“I told him that Anton needs your attention,” Yan replies, still grinning. “And that he shouldn’t hold you up with his kinky sex games.”
Sara’s face pinkens, and she turns away, grabbing the first aid kit to stuff the gauze and other supplies back in. “I’ll go take a look at Anton right now,” she says stiffly, and hurries out of the room without looking at either one of us.
I get up and put my shirt on. “I’m going to smash your f*cking face into your skull at training tomorrow,” I tell Yan grimly. “As soon as I get some sleep, you’re going to be eating your own teeth.”
The ass*ole just laughs as I stalk out of the room, following Sara, and even Ilya seems to have a smile on his face as I loudly slam the door behind me.
Anton better not enjoy Sara’s ministrations as I just did.
I’ll kill that motherf*cker if he does.
29
Sara
* * *
Anton has a few gashes and shallow puncture wounds where the shrapnel from the grenade got his arms, but otherwise, he’s okay. I change his bandages as Peter glowers from the other side of the room, and then I give Anton some instructions on how to take care of the wounds. Not that Peter’s teammate needs them; from what I can tell, these men are pros at treating basic injuries.
“Thank you, Dr. Cobakis,” he says when I’m done, and I smile at him.
Even scary-looking bearded assassins seem to respect the medical profession—when they’re injured, at least.
Peter says something sharp in Russian and crosses the room to stand next to me. “All done?” he asks irritably, glaring down at me, and I match his frown with one of my own.
“Yes, for now.” I have no idea what his problem is, but he’s been acting like a bear with a thorn in its paw ever since he entered the room.
If it weren’t so ridiculous, I’d think he’s jealous of my attention to his injured friend.
“Then let’s go.” Grabbing my hand, he leads me out, and my pulse jumps as I realize he’s bringing me to our room.
“Peter…” I feel myself getting breathless as I try to keep up with his long strides. “What are you doing? You need to rest.”
He gives me a sidelong glance but doesn’t stop. His jaw is tightly clenched, his grip on me so hard it’s almost painful. Towing me along, he enters our room and purposefully shuts the door behind us.
“Peter…” I back up as soon as he lets go of my hand. “You’re hurt. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but you need to—”
My words end on a gasp, because Peter stalks after me, closing the distance between us in a few decisive strides before sweeping me up against his chest. Three seconds later, I find myself on the bed, with two hundred pounds of furious, aroused male sprawled on top of me.