Page 160 of Caterina
"I had some of it earlier," I say.
Her head comes up quickly at that.
"You had pain medication?" she asks suspiciously. "Before I came in here, you took pain meds?"
"Only a—"
But before I can get my full answer out. She's off of me and off of the bed completely, in fact. A fact I deeply regret.
Caterina is pacing.
"I can't believe this," she's saying. She stops and faces me. "You're high. I should've known. You would've never agreed to this otherwise."
"Cate—" I try to sit up and wince before dropping back down.
"How could I be so stupid?" she's mumbling to herself. "I should have questioned it."
"Caterina," I say again, not trying to get up this time. "Stop for a second, would you?"
"Stop?" she says incredulously. "Adrian, I'm a damn rapist. A date rapist, even."
I almost laugh at that, but think better of it.
"Okay," I say. "One. That's not what happened. Two. I'm not high."
She glares at me. "You're lying."
"Look at me, Caterina. Really look at me," I say, my tone serious. "Am I high?"
She stares at me, her expression uncertain. She's searching my eyes, looking for the signs, but I know she won't find them.
"I only took a fraction of the dose," I say. "I was in a lot of pain, but I couldn't risk being impaired. I needed my head clear."
She looks down at her hands, then back at me. "Why didn't you say something earlier?" she asks. "Why did you let me...?"
She gestures vaguely at the bed, at me.
"As I recall," I tease, "I told you to get out. Several times. You're just really fucking stubborn."
She flushes, a pretty pink that I'm starting to really like. "You didn't exactly put up a fight," she mumbles.
I smile. "No," I say, and I reach for her.
My hand finds hers, and I pull her gently back toward the bed.
"I didn't put up a fight because I didn't want to fight you, Caterina. I wanted you," I say simply. "I've wanted you since the very first moment you opened your front door and hated me on sight."
She lets me pull her back onto the bed, her expression softening as she settles beside me. "I didn't hate you on sight," she argues, but there's no heat in it. "I hated you before I ever saw you."
My laugh turns into a wince as a sharp pain shoots through my side.
Her expression immediately becomes concerned again. "You need to lie still," she says, her hands gently pushing me back against the pillows. "You're going to tear your stitches."
I give in and lean back, a sigh escaping me. She's right. The pain is getting worse. My little charade is catching up to me.
"You're bossy," I complain, but it's a weak protest.
"I'm careful," she corrects. "There's a difference. A difference, I'm starting to think, that you are not very familiar with."
