Overlord: The Fringe, Book 2 (20 page)

“If you stay off it for two months.”

“Two months?” Her fight-or-flight instinct kicked in so strongly she shook from the surge of adrenaline.

He lowered the bed. “You have to keep your leg elevated. Once the swelling goes down, Doc Murphy will put your ankle in a cast, and you can hobble around on crutches.”

His gaze followed hers down to her bandaged hands. They were so thick with cotton and gauze, she couldn’t hold a gun, let alone a pair of crutches. Dragging herself around in the hardscrabble dirt had ripped the hell out of them. If not for the cushioning of drugs, they would probably sting like crazy.

“Well, after your hands heal, you can use a pair of crutches.”

Her belly lurched in fear. Never had she been so vulnerable. She couldn’t sit up, let alone fight. If ever Commander held the full power position, he did so now.

Filled with dark terror, she cast her gaze to his face. Drugs must have masked her senses, because glee didn’t fill his eyes but pity. She looked away. She would have rather seen triumph shining there.

“How long will it take for my hands to heal?” Unable to take flight or fight, she kept her growing shame at bay by sounding harsh and business like.

“I have a wheelchair—”

“How long?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“At least three weeks.”

The look he gave her oozed with so much pity, she felt slimed and had to hold back a scream of rage. “This just gets better and better.”

“It’s your own damn fault.”

“Yeah-huh.” She didn’t even bother to argue the obvious with him. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it none.” Her voice sounded bitter as raw juniper berries.

“You just don’t get it, do you?” His face turned red and his eyes compressed to slits. “You could be dead.”

“Maybe I’d be better off.”

“Don’t you ever say that again.” He loomed over her. His brown eyes blazed, echoing the color of his stubble, drawing her attention down to the V of his red silk shirt and then to his clinging black leather pants. Commander just couldn’t help but be so sexy he made her eyes water. Made her mouth water. Made her so hot and moist she damn near crossed her legs, not that she could with her busted foot.

Desperate to distract herself from her sexual thoughts, she bellowed, “I thought you weren’t going to yell at me?”

“I lied!” he yelled right to her face. He flinched back and scrubbed at his exhausted face with one hand. He lowered his voice to a seductive growl. “You have no choice. You are going to stay here even if I have to strap you down and put twenty guards on you, so get used to the idea.”

“You must be thrilled to high heaven.”

His uplifted eyebrows asked the question.

“You got me right where you want me.”

His eyebrows drew up farther as he peered down at her.

“Flat on my back and unable to run.” She glared at him with all the loathing she could muster.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and uttered an exhausted sigh. “Yes, you wily bandit. You finally unraveled the complicated knots of my nefarious scheme.” He lowered his hand to his side and pinned her with an intense gaze. “I’m so desperate to bed you that, after ignoring you for years, I captured you but let you escape, knowing you’d break your ankle, then I subjected you to five hours of delicate surgery so you’d be captive in a hospital bed. Yes, all this as part of my grand plan to jump your incapacitated bones.”

She giggled at how preposterous the situation sounded, but she couldn’t stop herself from antagonizing him. “Are we rewriting history here, Co-man-dur? Did you or did you not offer me a choice of bedding you or of sharing my secrets, all in the hopes of getting my freedom?”

“Mary,” he said through gritted teeth, “at the moment I’m not sure whether I want to strangle you or sleep with you.”

His tone made her consider the wisdom of pushing him further. “Well, we both know one thing for sure.”

“I’m probably going to regret this, but what’s that?”

“You would have bedded me, or taken my information, and then kept me here until you grew tired of me. Admit it. You have no intention of
ever
letting me leave.”

“You unbelievable, ungrateful—”

“Christ, you’re right! Where are my manners? Thank you ever so much for saving me. If you hadn’t, I’d have died a slow, horrible death and been shut of you. But no. Because of you, I’m alive and well, stuck in bed, unable to move, with a foot that won’t work for months. All this and so much more at your so generous mercy. Quick! Get your butt over here so I can kiss it with all the gratitude in my heart!”

The image she evoked with her words gave her a fit of the giggles the likes of which she’d never experienced. At the same time, she really wanted to cry, because, as much as she hated to admit the truth, she did owe him her life.

She knew the drugs were responsible for her confusion. Nothing else could make her stupid, loopy and silly as a kitten for a dangling string. If she didn’t stop laughing and crying, she was going to throw up.

Overwhelmed by churning emotions, powerful drugs, the lure of his wicked body, she thought nothing had gone right. Nothing ever went her way. Couldn’t she do anything competently?

“Mary, are you okay?” He leaned close. His voice simultaneously soothed, aroused and terrified her.

“No. I’m not okay. I’m sorry about your jacket. I’m—I feel—oh-my-God! I’m going to throw up.” And she did, right on Commander. There wasn’t much in her belly to come up, but the horrified look on his face made her laugh and cry hysterically.

“What the hell is wrong with her?” He ignored his ruined shirt as he leaned over her, smoothing the hair back from her feverish forehead as he used the pillowcase to wipe her face.

She couldn’t stop laughing, and she had no idea why he was suddenly referring to her in the third person. Lemon-sucking Mrs. Roth would be furious at such a breach. She burst into tears at the mere thought.

“Expect her to be a bit disoriented. She’s coming out of five hours of anesthesia with a significant dose of pain medication.”

Mary swiveled her gaze to her other side. A short man with a bullet-shaped bald head leaned over her opposite Commander. He flashed a light in her eyes, checked her with an “um” and a “hum” and a “tsk”, then he drew Commander aside.

She tried to eavesdrop, but some silly machine kept squawking an annoying blip. Tears fell out of the corners of her eyes, trickled down into her ears, and she laughed.

I’m insane!

A nurse, who looked liked an advert for the ideal grandma, in a blinding white uniform, wiped her tears away, cleaned up her face and the vomit. Mary watched as if she floated a million miles away.

As sleep pulled on her eyelids, her brain repeated in an endless litany,
two months is too long. Two months is too long.

Chapter Nineteen

“What’s this?” Mary crossed her arms, glaring at the stack of brightly colored paper on the tray he put across her lap.

“Origami paper.”

She scowled at the paper, then up at him as he sat on the edge of her bed. He thought if he allowed her to convalesce in her bedroom rather than the hospital, her disposition would improve. It had, but not for long.

He’d always enjoyed the peach-and-hyacinth smell of this room, a room for all his conquests. But he never loved the scent of it until Mary stayed here. Forever after, he would think of this room as hers and never let anyone stay here but her.

More than a week had passed. Her leg, clad in a bright blue cast, allowed her limited mobility. Originally, the cast was bright fluorescent pink, but she pitched a fit—“pink because I’m a girl”—so he instructed Doc Murphy to make the cast any color she wanted. She chose blue. Getting her way improved her attitude, but again, not for long. She just found something else to complain about.

“You need to keep the bandages on.” Every time he put them on her hands, she bit them right back off. His last effort rested in tatters on the salmon wool carpet.

“No.” Her hands had a multitude of deep scratches covered with dark scabs, but she was so afraid of being vulnerable, she wouldn’t let him immobilize her hands.

Michael considered using duct tape to get his way but decided against such drastic action. Forcing her would only drive her to find another way to defy him, perhaps something worse. Besides, Doc Murphy said Mary healed at an aggressive pace. “She’s basically normal, but somewhere along her genetic line, someone tampered with a couple of genes to enhance her healing abilities.” Since the IWOG conducted most genetic experiments, Michael ordered his operatives to look into an IWOG connection to her mysterious birth parents.

No matter what he did, her disposition did not improve for long, even though he’d made every effort to make her recovery pleasant. He even gave her a simple brown cotton skirt and shirt to wear.

She insisted on having her own clothes, and he reminded her they were ruined. When she was adamant about wearing pants, he had to remind her they wouldn’t fit over her cast. He’d even let her try to put on a gi, but the pants just wouldn’t fit over the bulky cast. She’d worn the simple outfit but fidgeted at it constantly. He thought she did it more to show her displeasure than from any real discomfort.

He’d bent over backwards to keep her comfortable, keep her occupied, but she greeted all his efforts with verbal vinegar and salty scowls. She’d been so snarly and snappy he suggested to Doc Murphy that they might want to pump her full of feel-good drugs.

“I do believe they would make
you
feel better, not her,” Doc Murphy said with his professional doctor don’t-ask-me-to-compromise-my-values face. “All she needs now are antibiotics.”

Of course, she bitched about that as well. Doc Murphy wanted to place an implant under her skin to administer antibiotics and pain meds as needed, but she’d gone ballistic. Under no circumstances would she let them put a chip in her. Doc Murphy relented and gave her pills she could take on her own for the pain, but the antibiotics were best administered once a week with a high-velocity injector gun. She didn’t like that, either, probably since Michael himself held the injector.

“How do I know you won’t try to slip some whacko drug in there?” She shoved the gun away from her upper arm.

“Remember our truce?”

“No. I must have lost my memory along with my mobility.” She wriggled across the silky salmon cover of her bed.

“You will—” He cut himself off and lowered the gun. He couldn’t order her around. If push came to shove, he could strap her down and
make
her follow doctor’s orders, but that would only alienate her further.

“Here.” He tossed her the high-velocity injector. “Examine it.” He rolled up his sleeve. “Shoot it into my arm first, if you want.”

With a furtive yank, she grabbed the injector and inspected it with critical eyes. She pulled the canister out and read it fully. Looking at him from a lowered face, her long lashes casting a curtain across her intense gaze, she tossed the canister and gun to him.

“Go ahead.” She offered out her arm.

A small victory, but her miniscule show of trust eased a bit of the shame in his heart. He pressed the high-velocity injector to her arm, dosed her and tossed the gun on her bedside table.

She could use the crutches, but only with great difficulty because of her battered hands. He’d been carting her from place to place until she insisted she could take care of herself. He thought if he found a distraction, such as the origami paper, she might let up on everyone, especially herself.

“Mary, please. I’m just trying to find something to keep you busy.” He nodded to the tray of garishly bright paper and didn’t add that he also wanted to keep her out of trouble. Broken ankle or no, she posed a threat he would be a fool to ignore.

“Great. Hand me that pair of crutches.”

“Only for the bathroom. Doc Murphy said you’re just not ready for more than that.”

“Murphy said, Murphy said,” she mocked his tone. “Screw him. What does he know?”

“As far as your health goes, a lot more than you.” Doc Murphy was one the best and brightest surgeons in the whole of the Void, but even his stellar bedside manner became raw after five minutes with Mary. Michael was the only person who could get near her without wanting to strangle her, and he couldn’t honestly say there weren’t times when he didn’t feel the same way. But he understood her moods. He understood that she tried to drive him away with her vicious mouth.

She expected him to abandon her like everyone else. When he didn’t, she tried even harder to make him. He refused. The nastier she got, the closer he came. When she realized her plan backfired, she didn’t know what to do.

A pistol to the face wouldn’t make her express gratitude to him, because if she did, she would feel obligated. Accepting his help terrified her. Kindness and trust and all things dark and dangerous. Suspicious by nature, Mary became almost epic in her snarling distrust in an effort to drive him away.

“I’m sick to death of sitting in bed. My butt is getting numb. My whole body feels filthy because you won’t let me take a shower and I hate baths. It’s hard to dangle my leg over the side of your ridiculously big tub.” She shot him a furious scowl.

Before he could offer a solution, she went on. “I don’t like wearing this stupid skirt. Let me have a gi. I can make the pants fit over my cast if I cut the leg.”

As he opened his mouth, she continued, “I don’t want to make origami and don’t you dare give me another book. I’ve read so many books, my eyes are going to explode.”

Her tirade went on and on. He just listened, reminding himself that she wasn’t angry with him but at herself for needing help.

Her breath came in furious gasps. “I want to get up, and—well—you can’t expect—” She’d worked herself up to such a frenzy she could barely speak. “I want to go home.” Covering her face with her battered hands, Mary bent forward, heaving with the strength of her racking sobs. His heart broke to see her so frustrated.

“I know you do.” He moved the tray aside and pulled her into his arms, sliding his body and hers together in the salmon silk. Kissing the top of her head, he murmured, “I know you do.”