Alpha's Private Plaything (Elsa and Drake Stone) novel Chapter 222

Chapter 222

Elsa

“Get the washcloth from the bathroom,” he ordered. “Warm water. Not

hot.”

I complied, hating myself for every step. When I returned, he lay

sprawled on the bed, shameless in his nakedness. Despite everything,

I couldn’t help noticing the perfect sculpting of his body, the

powerful lines interrupted only by the bandage and the purple

bruising surrounding it.

That bruise. He really had taken a knife for me. Why did that make my

chest ache?

I dipped the cloth in the basin of warm water and began gently

washing his arms, keeping my touch clinical and impersonal, even as

my fingers trembled slightly.

“Eric took care of Samuel,” Drake said conversationally, as if I weren’t

washing his naked body under duress.

I paused. “What do you mean ‘took care of“?”

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Chapter 222

“Nothing fatal, if that’s what you’re worried about. Though Samuel

won’t be walking properly for a while.”

I remembered what had happened with Allen breaking Samuel’s knee.

“Eric broke his leg?”

Drake raised an eyebrow. “No. His leg was already broken when Eric

found him. Someone got to him first.”

“Who?” I asked, genuinely curious now, my hand stilling on his chest.

A small, knowing smile played at the corners of Drake’s mouth.

“Better you don’t know.”

I pressed the cloth against his chest harder than necessary, earning a

sharp hiss of pain. “Don’t play games with me, Drake. If someone’s

targeting people around me, I deserve to know.”

“Around you?” He laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. Samuel

was targeting me, not you. You were just… collateral damage.”

There was something in his tone, a subtle warning perhaps, or maybe

just his usual manipulative tactics. His eyes held mine for a moment

too long before he reached down and slid off his loose hospital pants,

leaving him in just his boxer briefs.

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Chapter 222

“Wash my legs too.”

“Fuck,” I hissed under my breath, my cheeks burning with

humiliation. I swallowed hard, dipping the cloth back in the warm

water before kneeling beside the bed. The position felt submissive,

something that Drake no doubt intended. As I began washing his

muscled calves, I fought to keep my thoughts centered, my teeth

grinding together so hard I feared they might crack.

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I worked mechanically, washing each leg with careful, impersonal

strokes, my breathing shallow and controlled. When I reached his

thighs, I kept my eyes averted, ignoring the heat that emanated from

him and the way his muscles tensed under my touch.

“Turn over,” I said, surprised by my own boldness. I practically spat

the words.

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He raised an eyebrow but complied, rolling onto his stomach with a

grace that belied his injury. As I washed his broad back, my eyes

caught on something I’d noticed before but never had the courage to

–

ask about two deep silver scars that ran diagonally across his lower

back, just above his waistline.

Without thinking, I traced one of the scars with my fingertip. The

tissue was smooth and cool to the touch, unlike the rest of his

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