J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 1-4 - J. R. Ward [547]
“V’s been here to visit?”
“He lays his hand above your belly. It eases you.” The first time that warrior had stripped the sheets from Butch’s body and pulled up the hospital johnny, she’d been speechless both at the intimate sight and the Brother’s authority. But then she’d grown mute for another reason. Butch’s belly wound had been frightening—and then Vishous had scared her, too. He’d taken off the glove she’d always seen him wear, revealing a glowing hand that was tattooed front to back.
She’d been terrified about what would happen next, but Vishous just hovered that palm of his about three inches over Butch’s belly. Even in the coma, Butch had sighed raggedly in relief.
Afterward, Vishous had rearranged the hospital johnny and the bedsheets and turned to her. He’d told her to close her eyes, and though she was scared of him, she did. Almost immediately a profound peace had come over her, as if she were bathed in white, calming light. He did that to her each time before he left, and she knew he was protecting her. Although she couldn’t think of why, given that he clearly despised her.
She refocused on Butch and thought about his wounds. “You weren’t in a car accident, were you?”
He closed his eyes. “I’m very tired.”
As he shut her out, she sat on the bare floor and clasped her arms around her knees. Havers had wanted to bring things in like a cot or a comfortable chair, but she’d been concerned that if Butch’s vitals crashed again, the medical staff wouldn’t be able to get the necessary equipment to the bedside fast enough. Her brother hadn’t disagreed.
After God only knew how many days of this, her back was stiff and her eyelids were like sandpaper, but she hadn’t felt tired when she’d been fighting to keep Butch alive. Hell, she hadn’t even noticed the passage of time, had always been surprised when food was brought in or the nurses or Havers came. Or Vishous arrived.
So far, she wasn’t sick. Well, she had felt ill before Vishous stopped by for the first time. But ever since he’d started doing whatever he did with that hand of his, she’d been fine.
Marissa glanced up to the hospital bed. She was still curious why Vishous had called her to this room. Surely that warrior’s hand was doing more good than she was.
As the machines beeped softly and the air blower came on up in the ceiling, her eyes drifted down the length of Butch’s still body. A flush hit her face as she thought of what was underneath the covers.
She knew what every inch of him looked like now.
His skin was smooth over all his muscle and he was tattooed on the small of his back with black ink—a series of lines grouped in fours with each bundle carrying a slash that ran at an angle. Twenty-five of them, if she added correctly, some having faded, as if made years ago. She wondered what they commemorated.
As for the front of him, the dusting of dark hair across his pectorals had been a surprise, as she hadn’t known humans weren’t bare-skinned as her kind were. He didn’t have a lot of hair on his chest, though, and it narrowed quickly, becoming a thin line under his belly button.
And then…She was ashamed of herself, but she’d looked at his male sex. The hair at the juncture of his legs was dark and very dense, and from the midst, he had a thick stalk of flesh almost as wide as her wrist. What was below was a heavy, potent sack.
He was the first male she’d ever seen naked and the nudes from Art History just weren’t the same as the real thing. He was beautifully made. Fascinating.
She let her head fall back and stared at the ceiling. How unattractive was it that she’d invaded his privacy? And how unattractive that her body stirred just remembering?
God, how much longer now before she could get out of here?
She absently fingered the fine fabric of her gown and tilted her head so she could look at the fall of pale blue chiffon. The lovely creation by Narciso Rodriguez should have been utterly comfortable, but