41: A Very Spoiled Warlord
ALEXA
If guilt had a scent, it would be coffee, mangoes, and the distinct aroma of post-sex regret.
Not that I regretted it, technically. Not the part where Killian moaned my name like a man who was possessed. And especially not the part where he blacked out mid-orgasm.
What I did regret? The timing.
Because Rafael, his younger brother, who happened to be a literal doctor, had made it clear that Killian was in no shape for stress and exertion. And that meant he wasn't supposed to have sex either.
But guess what? I put him through all three at once. With enthusiasm.
So now I was creeping into Killian's absurdly expensive, ridiculously oversized bedroom, carrying a breakfast tray as though it would somehow atone for my sins.
On it were coffee, slices of mangoes, painkillers, and croissants I didn't even butter properly because my hands were shaking. Not from fear. From... whatever the hell last night was.
Killian lay sprawled in bed, shirtless, bruised, and looking like sin. His hair was messy, and there was a shadow of stubble on his jaw. His eyes, which were half-lidded, were already gleaming with smugness, locking onto me the second I walked in.
Great. He was awake.
"Rafael is going to kill me," I muttered, mostly to myself, as I set the tray down. "He's going to murder me with a clipboard and hide my body in a hospital freezer."
Killian smirked. "You look like someone who committed a felony."
"I did," I snapped. "I had sex with an injured lunatic who should've been on bedrest and oxygen, not on top of me."
His grin widened. "Technically, you were on top."
"Do not say it like that." I glared at him, my cheeks heating up. "You passed out mid-orgasm, Killian."
"Blackout," he corrected. "From euphoria. There's a difference."
I shot him a murderous glare as I handed him the painkillers. "Maybe you don't actually deserve these pills."
He took them with a cocky look on his face. "You really do have murderous intents."
I was still wearing his shirt. He was still shirtless. And every bit as hot as he had no right to be after, you know, shielding me from a literal bomb just days ago.
"Rafael's going to sense it," I groaned, pacing. "He'll walk in here, sniff the air, and say something like, 'Someone had reckless sex in this room, didn't they?' and then I'll combust on the spot."
Killian sipped his coffee leisurely. "I think he already knows."
I froze. "What?"
He gestured lazily at the nightstand. "He texted at 5 a.m. 'Don't strain your stitches. Or your soul. Or your stupid, lust-addled brain.' That's how I knew we were doomed."
"Oh my God." I covered my face with both hands. "I'm going to be a hospital case study. The Woman Who Broke Her Injured Husband with Her Thighs."
"You're not helping my recovery," he stated. "But you are helping my mood."
I glared. "You're not even sorry."
"Sorry?" He raised a brow. "I was dead inside until last night. And now I'm dead outside too, but at least I went out with a bang."
"You're still alive, idiot."
His smile softened, and suddenly it was real. There was no trace of teasing.
"Because of you," he uttered.
And just like that, my anger faded. Because yeah, we could've both died.
I looked down at my bandaged left wrist. "Don't make this harder than it already is."
"I'm not the one bringing croissants and stirring up guilt," he murmured.
I sighed. "You're going to be impossible to emotionally detach from, aren't you?"
"Sweetheart," he said, his eyes gleaming, "you never had a chance."
I reached for the tray, needing to do something with my hands before they decided to betray me again and run across his broad chest.
But then he said, "You're staying with me, right?"
I paused and stared at him. Lord, help me, I think I'm sinking down a formidable rabbit hole. Is this really okay? I thought.
But then I saw the surprisingly earnest look in his blue eyes.
"I'm staying," I responded softly.
"I need a shower," he muttered, pushing himself upright with a grunt.
Helping Killian to the bathroom was less "escort your injured lover with grace" and more "drag an overconfident noodle with abs and bruised ribs."
"You're heavy," I grunted, looping his arm over my shoulder.
"I'm majestic," he mumbled.
He was entirely too smug for someone in his condition.
I kicked the door open and guided him towards the sink.
"Are we showering together?" he asked, perking up slightly. "Because I think I have one good pelvic thrust left in me—"
"Shut up before I drown you."
He laughed hoarsely but sat down obediently on the bench beside the marble tub, still flushed and blinking like the lights were too much.
I grabbed a towel, turned on the faucet, and adjusted the water temperature until it was warm.
"You're lucky you're pretty," I muttered, soaking the towel and wringing it out.
"You forgot charming, brilliant, and devastatingly well-endowed."
"I left those out on purpose."
He snorted. His head lolled back slightly, resting against the tiled wall behind him.
I helped him into the bathtub when he was ready, and he released a soft sigh, closing his eyes as he tilted his head backwards.
"Have the meds kicked in yet?" I asked, wincing.
"Not yet," he responded, and my stomach tightened.
He sat still as I washed him up, his eyes staying closed.
I cleaned the curve of his collarbone, the lines of his ribs, and the inked pattern trailing down his side.
"Stop staring," he rasped.
"I'm washing you."
"You're ogling."
"You're delusional."
He flashed me a crooked little grin, and I hated that my heart started to thud far too loud.
"Tilt your head towards me," I said flatly, grabbing the shampoo bottle.
I lathered his wavy, nape-length hair, my fingers sliding through the silky strands. He groaned softly, not in a filthy way, for once.
"That feels illegal."
I chuckled, massaging his scalp with slow, deliberate circles.
"I missed this," he murmured suddenly.
I gulped, swallowing past the lump in my throat.
I rinsed him gently, careful not to let the water get in his eyes. When it was done, I wrapped his hair in a towel like he was some ancient Roman royalty and leaned back to admire my work.
"There," I said. "All clean."
He blinked at me with a dazed expression on his face.
"You gonna tuck me in next?"
"Are you gonna keep talking and ruin it?"
He smirked.
I should've walked away.
I should've let him handle it from there.
But I didn't.
Because for some reason, watching him sit there, towel on his head, lips parted, I felt something strange bloom in my chest.
....
The sheets were clean, still warm from the dryer. I'd pulled them tight over the mattress while Killian groaned dramatically from the bathroom as if he'd just survived an assassination attempt instead of... you know, a gentle shampoo session.
Now, he was tucked in like a very spoiled warlord. He was propped up by two pillows, his eyes drooping. His hair was slightly damp and curling at the edges.
"You're enjoying this," I muttered, lifting a spoonful of soup to his lips.
Killian sighed.
"Of course I am," he murmured. "You're feeding me. There are clean sheets. You washed my hair. If you start reading me bedtime poetry, I'll marry you again before the broth cools."
"Open," I said, and he did.
The first sip made him groan.
“This is better than sex,” he commented.
I raised a brow, and he cracked one eye open.
"Okay, not better. But... close enough to land in heaven if I die tonight."
“You’ve got to be—”
I was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing. Letting out a sigh, I placed the bowl of soup on the nightstand and left for the front door.
The doorbell rang again.
I cracked the door open, and that was all it took.
A sharp pain exploded across my cheek before I could even register who it was.
The slap landed so hard, my head jerked to the side.
My palm flew to my face, my vision swimming. The world tilted slightly.
Then I saw her.
Killian's mother.
Her eyes were cold and stormy.
"That," she hissed, "was for my son."