Free Web NovelChapter 40: Chapter 40
Fleur emerged from the bathroom wrapped in steam and the scent of vanilla soap, her skin still damp and flushed from the hot shower. The red silk nightie clung to her curves like a second skin, the fabric whispering against her thighs as she stepped into the room.
Christian lay on his back on the bed, one arm draped over his closed eyes, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of exhausted sleep. The bandage on his right shoulder had shifted — edges curling, a faint bloom of red seeping through the white gauze.
Fleur exhaled through her nose, a sound caught between frustration and helplessness.
Did this man have no regard for his own body? He’d been burning with fever, bleeding from a wound that should have had him bedridden, and still he’d taken her in that car with a hunger that bordered on feral. Never once letting on that his shoulder was torn open. Never once slowing down.
She crossed to the intercom and called for a medical kit. On second thought, she added a thermometer and fever medicine to the order. His temperature could spike again during the night — the wolf’s healing always burned hot before it burned clean.
Her voice was low, but the wolf’s hearing was sharper than any human’s. freёwebnovel.com
Christian’s eyes opened, brow furrowing as his head turned toward the source of the disturbance. He found her standing there, phone pressed to her ear, and the sight stole the breath from his lungs.
She was bare-faced, every trace of makeup washed away, her skin porcelain-pale and glowing in the dim lamplight. Her blonde hair hung in wet ropes around her shoulders, darkening the silk of her nightie. She looked like something out of a fever dream — an angel, pure and untouchable, standing in his room in a scrap of red fabric that left nothing to the imagination.
His jaw tightened.
He rose slowly, ignoring the sharp pull in his shoulder, and crossed to the dresser. Fleur didn’t hear him approach until the hum of the hairdryer filled the air behind her. She spun, startled, to find Christian holding it in his hand, his expression unreadable.
"Why haven’t you dried your hair?" His voice was soft, scolding, as he pressed the button. Warm air rushed over her damp scalp, and his fingers tangled gently in the wet strands, working through the tangles with a patience that made her chest ache.
"Mr. Wayne, I can do it myself." She tried to pull away, but he growled — a low, irritated sound that rumbled from deep in his chest.
"Stay still." His fingers resumed their work, ruffling her hair, lifting the wet strands to let the warm air reach her scalp. "And it’s Christian to you, Fleur." A pause. "Do you want to catch a cold? Or is this your revenge — making me look after you because you have to look after me?"
She blinked, stunned by the accusation. "I didn’t do it intentionally." She turned to face him, snatching the hairdryer from his hand. "And I won’t fall sick that easily. But you need to rest. You’re not well, and your shoulder—" Her voice broke off as her eyes found the bloodied bandage. "Oh, for heaven’s sake, Christian."
She took his right arm in her hands, her touch featherlight as she examined the wound. The gauze was sodden, the edges peeling. "It looks bad," she murmured, dismay bleeding into her voice.
"I’m fine." His tone was careless, dismissive.
"No, you’re not." Her gaze snapped up, sharp and fierce. "Stop pretending you’re made of stone."
Christian’s eyes softened. His lips parted, surprise flickering across his features. No one had ever shouted at him before. This woman, standing before him in her scandalous nightie, scolding him like he was a misbehaving pup — it should have infuriated him. Instead, it stirred something warm and unfamiliar in his chest.
A knock at the door drew Fleur’s attention. She released him and crossed the room, accepting the medical kit and medicine from the bellboy with a quiet thank you. When she turned back, Christian hadn’t moved. His eyes tracked her every movement with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
"Sit," she ordered, nodding toward the bed.
He didn’t move.
She rolled her eyes, grabbed his hand, and tugged him toward the bed. This time, he let her lead him, unresisting, as if her small hand on his was enough to command even a wolf.
"You’re so stubborn. Look at this." She hissed as she peeled away the old bandage, wincing in sympathy at the angry red wound beneath. Her fingers moved with practiced care — cleaning the wound with antiseptic, applying a fresh dressing, her brow furrowed in concentration. "You’re so careless with yourself. Now don’t move your right shoulder. Do you hear me?"
When he didn’t answer, her gaze snapped up to find him watching her. Not at her work, but at her. His eyes traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her lips, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. Her face heated under his scrutiny, and she moved to stand.
His hand caught her wrist.
"You care so much about me."
It wasn’t a question. Her actions, her expressions, the way she’d winced at his wound as if the pain were her own — it was written all over her.
"I... I only worry because you’re in this trouble because of me." The words came out stuttered, nervous, as Christian rose and stepped closer. His body heat enveloped her, his warm breath ghosting over the shell of her ear.
"Tell me, Fleur." His voice had dropped, husky and dark. "Did you pack this sexy nightie to seduce someone?"
"No!" The word came out too fast, too sharp. The thought had never crossed her mind. She’d packed it for comfort. For warmth. Not for him.
"Then why," his hands found her hips, turning her to face him, "did you bring a red silk nightie that leaves nothing to the imagination? The kind that makes a man want to take you to his bed."
He pulled her against him, slamming her into the hard planes of his naked chest. Her body responded before her mind could — her core throbbing, heat pooling low in her belly, desire coiling like a snake she couldn’t control.
She was so embarrassed. So aware of how her body betrayed her, softening into his hold, aching for more. She cursed the moment she’d packed this nightie. Cursed the moment she’d put it on.
She lifted her chin, defiance flickering in her eyes. "Mr. Wayne." She used his surname deliberately, watching his jaw tighten. "What I pack in my luggage and wear at night is none of your concern. Please maintain some professionalism."
Christian’s lips curved into a slow, wolfish smirk. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer until there was no space left between them. His face hovered over hers, his mouth a wicked breath away from her lips.
"Baby," he murmured, his voice a low, possessive growl, "I am very possessive about what belongs to me." His eyes bore into hers — dark, hungry, claiming. "And you..."
He paused, letting the word hang in the air between them like a promise.
"...belong to me, Fleur."
