Page 11 of Striker
“It’s your call, but we’re pretty far from a hospital. Plus, you’ll feel a lot stronger after a bag of saline.”
“Okay,” she dragged out the word, her American accent hinting that she was a long way from home. Just like him. “I’d like to clean up first and use the bathroom.”
He got to his feet, grabbed his duffel from against the wall near the bed, and retrieved the promised toothbrush and clothing. He had only one pair of sweats, and they sure as shit wouldn’t fit her tiny waist, but at least she’d be covered. He shook out a long-sleeved black tee to go with it.
Tucking the items against his side, he moved to the bed and then held out his arm for her.
She gripped his elbow, and he helped her shift to the edge of the mattress.
“Take your time. You might get dizzy.”
“I’ve been dizzy all day,” she said dryly, as she lowered her feet to the tile.
Sure enough, as he helped her stand, her body started to lean to the left. He caught her around the waist and held her to his side. He passed her the items. “You take these, I’ll take you.”
Before she could protest, he lifted her against his chest.
She clung to the clothes and closed her eyes. “Oh, god,” she muttered.
He froze. “Are you going to be sick?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Her mouth was a flat line, and her eyes were sewn shut.
Fuck. He shuffled quickly to the bathroom, trying not to jostle her but also not wanting either of them to wear vomit. He kicked open the door, lowered her to her feet, and took the items from her hands. Then he belted his arm around her hip and moved toward the toilet.
He dropped the clothes on the counter before swooping her hair into his palm. “Go on. I’ve got you.” He held her back to his front with his free arm.
She didn’t try to drop to the ground. Instead, she took very long, slow breaths, her fingernails clinging to his forearm.
“That’s it. Keep breathing. We’re in no rush here.”
She seemed to relax more, her fingers loosening their grip on his skin.
“Can you say something else?” The request came out on a loose whisper.
“Uh—” Well, shit. What could he say? “You’re safe now. You just need to rest and you’ll be good as new.”
He splayed his fingers over her ribcage. She was so tiny. Likely no more than five foot two. If he loosened his grip, she might crumple to the ground like a wet rag. Goddamn he didn’t like how frail she was.
“Do you want to change and go back to the bed?”
She shook her head. “No. I—I need to clean up.”
He looked at the small, dingy bathtub. She could barely walk. He wasn’t willing to risk her falling in the shower. Even getting in and out of the bathtub would be dangerous.
But he didn’t blame her for wanting to clean up. Dirt caked her skin and was crusted beneath her fingernails. The strands of her hair were gritty. A bath would surely help her on her road to recovery.
“I’ll run your water. Sit.” He turned her around, lowered the toilet seat lid, then eased her into a sitting position.
He cranked the taps and ran his fingers beneath the uneven spray. Rust stained the porcelain, but the tub was in decent shape otherwise.
One glance at Molly showed her wavering. Purple shadows underscored her hollow eyes, but a little color had returned to her face. Not much, but she didn’t look as ashy as she had in the helicopter.
His stomach twisted. He wanted to put his fist through a wall—and through Rex’s face. No woman deserved to be treated like this. If they hadn’t located Rex’s compound when they had, she might have died.
He stood and offered her his hands. She slipped her fingers into his palms. He helped her to her feet, then moved his hands to her waist. “Do you feel steady enough to get in?”
She nodded. “Nothing short of a gun will keep me out of there.”
