Roux couldn’t believe he’d actually slung her over his shoulder like a fucking caveman and carried her down to the infirmary. As she’d suspected, her cut hadn’t needed stitches. After the doctor had cleaned and rewrapped the wound, he’d given her a prescription for antibiotics and another for pain medication, should she need it. “Are you speaking to me now?” She hadn’t said anything at the Bastille, or during the walk to the pharmacy. Deke had tried to engage her in conversation while they’d waited for her prescriptions to be filled, but she’d done her best to ignore him. All the while, however, she’d been daydreaming about knocking that smug grin off his face. “You’re pretty damn pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” Deke held his hands up—both healed now—in mock surrender. “I did warn you, female. I also gave you a choice.” “So, this is my fault?”
