The spoon hovers in front of my face like a mother bird feeding its chick. I shoot Logan my best death glare, but his amused smirk only grows wider.
"Open up." He waves the spoon. A drop of golden broth threatens to fall on my hospital gown.
I press my lips together and cross my arms. The movement squeezes at my IV line, leaving my elbow feeling a bit bruised, but it’s worth it for the dramatic effect.
"The doctor said clear liquids only." Logan’s voice carries that infuriating mix of authority and tenderness that makes my stomach flutter. "And since you can’t talk..."
My scowl deepens. The breathing tube removal left my throat feeling like I’d swallowed broken glass coated in fire ants and tiny demons stabbing me with pitchforks. Even if I wanted to tell him exactly where he could stick that spoon, I physically can’t.
"Come on, Nikki." He leans closer, his forest-green eyes sparkling with mischief. "You need to eat something."
The nickname should annoy me. I hate when anyone other than Penelope calls me Nikki. But of course when Logan says it, my chest just gets all warm and tingly instead.
A strand of his golden brown hair falls across his forehead as he tilts his head, studying me. His bruises from the crash have already started turning that sickly yellow-green color, but even beaten up, he’s unfairly handsome.
Must be nice to have wolf healing, though. Could use some of that to heal my throat so I can tell him where he can put the damn spoon.
"The faster you eat, the faster you heal." He taps the spoon against the bowl. "The faster you heal..."
I raise an eyebrow, waiting.
"The faster you can tell me exactly what you think about being spoon-fed."
My lips twitch. Damn him.
He notices and grins. "That’s what I thought."
The spoon approaches again, and this time I let him slip it between my lips. The broth is barely warm, watered down despite being salty, and overall disgusting, but his satisfied expression keeps me from spitting it back out.
"Good girl."
The patronizing tone has me narrowing my eyes, but he’s already dipping the spoon back into the bowl. His other hand rests on the bed rail, close enough that his knuckles brush against my arm. The casual touch sends tingles across my skin.
For someone who almost died, he’s unfairly sexy. And my body doesn’t seem to understand the need for medical rest, because all I want to do is jump his wolfy bones. Specifically one bone in particular.
I blame it on his stupid pheromones. They’re all pheromone-y again, soaking the room in his sex appeal. He’s probably doing it on purpose, because he’s an ass like that.
"I know it hurts." His voice drops lower, meant only for me. "But you’re doing great."
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