Stella's POV
I stretched out my legs carefully, mindful of my bandaged knees as I settled onto the plush rug. The drink Joseph had brought looked absolutely divine – amber liquid garnished with fresh lemon slices and crushed mint.
"More ice, Mrs. Lancaster?" The younger maid, hovered nearby with obvious concern.
"This is perfect." I took another sip, savoring the complex blend of flavors.
"It's working." I smiled, already feeling a pleasant warmth spreading through my limbs. The tension from earlier – the accident, Adam's intense reaction, that moment in the wheelchair – began to fade into a soft blur.
The maids exchanged glances as I reached for the pitcher to refill my glass. "Mrs. Lancaster, perhaps you should rest..."
"I am resting." I gestured to my reclined position. "Very comfortably, I might add."
By the time I'd finished half the pitcher, the room had taken on a dreamy quality. The crystal chandelier sparkled like stars, and even my injuries felt pleasantly distant.
"I should probably shower," I announced to no one in particular, pulling myself up using the settee for support. The silk nightgown I'd grabbed felt impossibly soft against my skin. "A nice hot bath sounds amazing right now."
"Mrs. Lancaster!" Both maids stepped forward as I swayed slightly. "Let us help you—"
"I'm fine!" I waved them off, making my way to the en-suite bathroom with only minor assistance from the furniture. "Just going to soak another knee a bit. Doctor's orders, right?"
\---
Adam's POV
The mahogany grandfather clock in my study chimed seven, pulling my attention from the quarterly reports. Dinner would be served soon.
Joseph appeared in the doorway. "Sir, dinner is served."
"Where is my wife?"
"Mrs. Lancaster is resting in her room." Joseph's professional mask slipped slightly. "She seemed... quite relaxed when I last checked."
Relaxed. Coming from Joseph, that word carried volumes of meaning.
I made my way to her room, noting the unusual quiet. No sound of running water, no movement behind the heavy oak door.
"Stella?" I knocked sharply. No response.
The door was unlocked. Inside, the first thing that hit me was the smell – sweet and citrusy, with an unmistakable undertone of alcohol.
A half-empty crystal pitcher sat abandoned on the carpet. Beside it, a tumbler still held traces of what looked like an innocent enough drink.
But the scent... Long Island Iced Tea. Someone had served my injured wife–one of the most deceptively potent cocktails possible.
A splash and muffled thud from the bathroom broke through my rising anger.
"Stella?" I crossed the room. Still no answer.
The bathroom door was locked, but that hadn't stopped me before. One sharp kick near the handle, and the antique wood gave way.
Steam billowed out, thick enough to momentarily obscure my vision. When it cleared, my heart nearly stopped.
Stella was submerged in the massive marble tub, the crystal-clear water doing little to conceal her slender form. The steam had left a rosy flush across her delicate collarbones, and droplets traced tempting paths down the graceful curve of her throat.
Her perfectly proportioned figure - the swell of her breasts just breaking the water's surface, the elegant arch of her waist disappearing beneath - was enough to make any man forget how to breathe. Her injured leg was propped awkwardly on the rim, the bandages soaked through, while her eyes remained closed, lips parted slightly in peaceful abandon.
Focus, damn it. She was drunk, injured, and potentially in danger. This wasn't the time to let base desires cloud my judgment, no matter how tempting she looked.
"Stella!" I reached into the water without hesitation, pulling her up against my chest. Her skin was flushed from the heat, droplets running down her bare shoulders.
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused but somehow still managing to look annoyed. "I was relaxing," she protested as I wrapped her in a thick towel.
"Joseph!" My voice carried enough command to bring him running. "Get the doctor. Now."
"I'm fine," Stella mumbled against my shoulder. "Just a little... floaty."
The towel was already soaked through, clinging to curves I was trying very hard not to notice. "You ,come in!" I called for a maid. "Bring me one of my shirts. Now."
"Your... shirt?" Stella's brow furrowed adorably in confusion.
I ignored the way my pulse jumped at the thought of her in my clothes. "You need something dry."
The maid appeared with impressive speed, a crisp white shirt in hand. "Sir, should I...?"
"Help Mrs. Lancaster change." I reluctantly transferred Stella to the maid's care. "I'll wait outside."
Stella's voice drifted through the door as the maid helped her dress. "Everything's spinning... but like, in a nice way?"
I pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose, torn between concern and an inexplicable urge to laugh. Of course she'd be a chatty drunk.
"Ready, sir." The maid opened the door, revealing Stella perched on the edge of the bed. My shirt swallowed her small frame, falling to mid-thigh. Something possessive stirred in my chest at the sight and my cock was somewhat hard.
The doctor arrived moments later, checking the state of her knees. The gauze was unwrapped, revealing a gruesome wound beneath. The flesh, after being soaked in water, had turned a ghastly white, appearing even worse than before.
The doctor said, "The bandages are ruined. We'll need to clean and rewrap these."
"No!" Stella tried to pull away as he reached for her leg. "Hurts!"
"Stella." I caught her hands before she could swat at the doctor. "Let him work."
She turned those huge eyes on me, glazed with alcohol but still somehow deadly effective. As she spoke, she curled her legs inward, her body gradually collapsing into my embrace with the movement. "But it hurts."
"I know." I found myself speaking more gently than I had in years. "Just for a minute."
She had such a delicate side that I had not seen before. Maybe I should get tot know her more. Of course, she is my wife now.