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Montrell winced as the fabric clung to the bloody scrape, refusing to let go.
“Shit, you have gravel caked in here. Getting poked with tweezers is what you deserve.” Vespa thumped him on the head, hard. “Pay more attention next time!” She sighed, and some of the tension faded from her face. “I guess it could have been worse. Now turn around so I can gouge that gravel out.”
Montrell’s eyes widened before turning to Beatrice, a pleading within them that punched her in the gut. “Don’t let her, Bea. Ves’s the worsht.”
“Is he slurring?” Beatrice asked, unable to look away from those eyes.
Vespa smirked. “I gave him some alcohol to numb the pain. He felt guilty, so he didn’t fight me on it as hard as he usually does.” She thumped him again before shifting to pull out a drawer, fiddling inside in search of something.
Montrell’s face paled as he listened to her continue to root around. He stumbled a bit as he leaned forward. “Please, Bea. Save me.” His s’s continued to sound like h’s were attached.
Beatrice surprised herself by laughing.
Vespa turned with a pair of tweezers, clicking them with a dark smile. “He’s right to be scared. I have the worst bedside manner.” She glared at him again. “But you deserve it.”
“Yeah.” Montrell hung his head. “’M sorry.”
“You better be,” Vespa said, but her face softened as she sighed. Her hand without the tweezers began tugging at the fabric caked to his scrapes. “This really is going to be a bitch to clean out.”
Beatrice winced with him as Vespa managed to rip a piece away. “If you soak it—” she started to suggest, but swallowed, glancing away.
Vespa paused her prodding. “Think you know better?” She pushed away from the counter, lifted Beatrice’s hand, and slapped the tweezers into it. “Be my guest.” She glanced over her shoulder at Montrell as she stomped toward the door. “You’re lucky she stepped in. I wanted to make you suffer.” Then her booted footsteps carried her out of the suddenly too-small bathroom.
Beatrice swallowed as she watched Montrell sway a little. Then she moved over to the countertop. “Let me see what else we have.” She crouched as she opened the cabinets beneath, gathering more supplies.
Montrell leaned his less injured side against the wall as he waited silently.
He never said a word as she tended to him. The caked-on blood eased its hold on his scraped wounds after she soaked a washcloth and dabbed at the abrasion. His dress shirt grew damp and clinging as it absorbed the water. He helped her to strip what was left of it off so she could get a better view of his injury.
Montrell’s dress shirts had already accentuated how they barely contained his bulk. Him shirtless was distracting. His arms were thickly roped tree limbs. His chest was that of a hairy bear. It was more barrel than any type of six-pack. She remembered how softly it had cushioned her head after they’d been together the one time. Seeing him half naked brought forth images of burrowing against him all over again.
Montrell was strong enough to keep her safe, but strength wasn’t always used for that. And when it turned on her, she would quickly be overpowered.
Making him turn around so she could focus on his back let her breathe easier. She was the one who made a distressed sound in her throat as she picked out the first small rock with the tweezers. “There really is a lot embedded,” she murmured. She tried to be as gentle as she could while she continued to prod him, warning him each time she brought the tweezers close. She was also quick about it. No need to draw out the torture. Her hand skimmed over his scrapes when she could no longer see anything else embedded, feeling for anything her eyes had missed.
When a soft shudder ran under her hand, she froze.
Montrell’s head had dipped toward his chest. His eyes squeezed shut instead of meeting hers in the mirror.
Beatrice swallowed. She finished the pass with her hand, not finding any more gravel. Some of his blood had gotten on her skin. She put down the tweezers and moved to the sink to wash. The cold water removed the warmth that had sunk into her palm.
“All right, all that’s left is disinfecting the wound and covering up the worst of the scrapes.”
“Can I sit?” he mumbled.
Beatrice let out a surprised snort. “I should have had you do that a while ago. It would have been easier to reach you. Oh, but there’s no chair in here. I’ll—”
Montrell lowered to the floor. His forehead thumped into the door of the lower cabinet. His hands braced against it, blocking her view of his face.
Beatrice finished soaking a clean cloth with disinfectant. “Here we go,” she warned, pressing it against the worst of his shoulder scrapes. It probably stung like a bitch, but he didn’t tense under it. When she lifted the cloth away, she blew on the wound to help with the sting, just like one of her nannies used to do during her scraped-knees phase.
Montrell let out a low, deep groan, a sound that created a warm knot in Beatrice’s stomach.
“Almost done,” she murmured in sympathy. She shifted the cloth along the shallower scrapes until the disinfectant also soaked into the less serious wounds. She didn’t blow again, but while her hands used the bandages to cover the deepest of the scrapes, his own curled into fists where they rested against the cabinet.
She smoothed the last bandage with her fingers. “There,” she said, pulling back. “Though this tape is going to hurt like hell when you pull it off.” She tried to smile, but it wouldn’t come. Not when his head was twisted to the side and his warm eyes locked so intently on her face.
The brown of his eyes had always been soft and warm. Not a dark color, but more of an almond. She’d expected his eyes to be narrowed with pain, but they weren’t like that at all.
