She paused in the doorway. Hudson sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap. His trousers molded to his long legs and the polo shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. She found no fault with his appearance. He looked good. His hair was a honey-brown shade, like his eyes, and his skin had the same warm tone.
He was handsome. Striking, even.
She entered the room and placed her things on the table. “How do you feel?” she asked, aiming for a polite, professional tone.
“Almost human.”
“Any pain from your suture site?”
“Not really.”
“Can I take a look?”
He twisted at the waist to give her access. She sat down beside him and lifted the hem of his shirt halfway up his back. The bandage was still clean and intact, so she left it alone. The bruises on his side had darkened to an angry purple in some places. When she touched him there, he sucked in a ragged breath.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
She palpated his ribs gently. “Were you kicked?”
His expression was flat. “I can’t remember.”
She didn’t believe him. Perhaps he’d learned to give no information, even when pushed to the limit. She was barely pressing him. She didn’t feel any broken ribs, just warm flesh over hard muscles. She tugged his shirt down, trying not to imagine the horrors he’d endured. “I have painkillers.”
“I don’t need them.”
Her gaze rose to his. He’d shifted toward her when she finished her exam. Now they were side by side, and too close for comfort. She could smell the soap he’d used, which conjured an erotic image of water flowing down his naked body.
She suppressed the urge to inhale deeper. “Do you need...anything else?”
His eyes darkened at the question, dropping to her lips. It wasn’t difficult to guess what he was thinking. She’d been a wife for long enough to know what men liked. What they craved, what comforted them.
“I wouldn’t mind a haircut,” he said.
“What?”
He let out a choked laugh and lifted a hand to his head. He made scissors with his fingers. “A haircut, you know. Snip snip?”
“Oh. Yes. I will get Ashur.”
“No, not him.”
“No?”
“I don’t want him near me with sharp objects.”
Her stomach fluttered with unease. “What has he done?”
“Nothing much. He’s okay. I just prefer you.”
“I apologize for Ashur. He is a difficult boy.”
“Is he your son?”
She rose to her feet abruptly. Anguish speared through her. “He is my brother’s son.”
Hudson gave her an assessing look, but didn’t ask more questions.
She busied herself by searching through her medical bag for a pair of utility scissors. “I will cut your hair.” She gestured to the only chair in the room, a simple wooden stool by the table. “Come sit.”
He sat down and stared out the window. A villager was leading his herd down the rocky hillside in the distance. She liked the deserts and the valleys of her homeland, but there was something tranquil about this mountain backdrop. She turned her attention to Hudson’s hair. “How short?”
“I don’t care.”
She did her best to cut sparingly, in even amounts. There were matted tangles and singed ends, as if he’d been burned. She tried to remove the damage without leaving any bald spots. When she was finished, she set aside the scissors and touched his newly shorn head. His hair looked choppy, but felt nice. She murmured in approval, running her fingers through it.
He made a grunting sound of pleasure.
She glanced down and realized he was staring at her breasts, which were about an inch from his face. She’d been so intent on her task that she’d forgotten to keep a polite distance. She hadn’t meant for this mundane act to become so intimate. The air between them turned electric, charged with sexual energy. He was leaning into her hands, like a cat that wanted more petting. She froze, her fingers still threaded in his hair.
He glanced up at her, his jaw tense.
“Sorry,” she said, releasing him. Before she could step back, he slipped his arm around her waist.
“Are you?”
She was startled by his sudden movement. His expression revealed hunger, not anger, but she had to be careful with him. His injuries hadn’t made him weak or slow. If he wanted to overpower her, he could.
“Are you sorry for touching me? For getting too close? Or for holding me against my will?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “I’m not.”
He arched a brow at this claim. When she tried to twist away, he pulled her closer. She braced her palms on his biceps, her pulse racing. Maybe he could sense her excitement, as well as her deception. Because she liked his arm around her, strong and immobile. She liked his taut face and hard body. She could lie to him, but she couldn’t lie to herself.
He lifted one hand to her face. “Let’s make a deal.”
Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird in her chest. He didn’t want to help her. He wanted to regain control of the situation by any means necessary. Although she might enjoy his methods, she couldn’t let him manipulate her.
“I take you across the mountains, and you take me however I like.”
“I rescued you,” she choked. “You owe me.”
“This isn’t a rescue. It’s forced labor.”
“We help each other. It is fair.”
“No. If you want my services, you have to buy them.”
“I can’t pay you.”
He brushed his thumb over her trembling lips. “Sure you can.”
Arousal coursed through her, unabated. Her body didn’t care about his motives. It longed for a respite from grief and pain. One sensual interlude, to make her forget her troubles.
“You’re not free until I am,” he said in a low voice. “You can walk away from my deal as soon as I can walk away from yours.”
She couldn’t acquiesce to his demands, no matter how tempted she was. She couldn’t allow him to gain the upper hand. He seemed excited about turning the tables on her and giving her orders. A flash of intuition told her he wanted freedom,
