Page 147 of Fury In Death

“By stopping him you save him. You want both.”

“You don’t think I can have both.”

As he led her to the bedroom, he kissed the hand he held. “Wanting both makes you who you are. I love, very much, who you are.”

He ran the bath, helped her undress, remove the brace.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured.

“I’m not going to look. Hell, yes I am.” She moved to the full-length mirror in her closet. “Shit.”

Banged up knee—well, both, but one more than the other—bruised hip and, yeah, ass, too. Ribs, shoulder looked like a mean and dirty storm cloud rolled over them. Ankle, wrist both looked to be healing well enough.

Face? Not as bad as it had looked in the vanity mirror. But not good.

“Not the first time.” She started to shrug, but the shoulder couldn’t handle it.

She walked to the bath. He’d lit candles and was pouring something into the water.

“Looks romantic.”

“Not tonight, dear,” he said, and made her laugh. “Summerset recommended aromatherapy as well as the rest.”

“What’s in that bottle going in there?”

“I’m not altogether sure, but it has a lovely scent. In you go now.”

He helped her into the enormous tub. He knew she liked bathwater close to scalding and hadn’t let her down. It felt as if she lowered her body into hot, slightly rolling wonderful.

“Okay, this is good.”

“A bit more.” He started to lower some sort of mask over her eyes.

“Hold on, what’s that thing? It’s purple.”

“Healing mask. Amethyst crystals, and smooth as glass. For your eyes.”

She started to object, but when he lowered it, she experienced cold, penetrating wonderful.

“Try to turn your brain off. Fifteen minutes.”

She couldn’t, so didn’t, and spent the time in the wonderful working out how she’d handle Banner and his lawyers.

Busy brain, Roarke thought when he lifted the mask away. Even half asleep, a busy brain. He helped her up, wrapped her in a bath sheet.

“Lie down now. Blockers first, there you are. There’s a salve, then the wanding. It’s best you wear the brace through the night.”

He smoothed the salve over bruises and scrapes, wanded them all, and the face he loved. As gently as he could, he fit the brace back on, slid a soft, thin nightshirt over her.

He’d intended to push a soother on her, but doubted she needed it.

He saw he’d been right when, with barely a murmur, she slept.

“There now, a ghrá, no dreams tonight.”

He gave the cat, who’d sat, watching all, guarding her, a long stroke.

“Well now, mate, we’ve done what we could for tonight. Not the first time, is it now? And we know, both of us, don’t we, it won’t be the last.”