Chapter 7

Yves’ back was covered in a patchwork of angry, weeping rashes and pressure sores—an agonizing combination of itch and pain that would be hellish for anyone, let alone someone trapped in a coma. No wonder she’d noticed that sharp, unpleasant scent the moment she walked in; it was the raw skin and festering wounds.
Lindsay’s anger flared, her fair cheeks burning crimson. Mr. Quigley Sr. wasn’t even gone yet, and the rest of the Quigley family already dared to treat Yves this way, right under his nose.
She couldn’t bear to imagine what Yves had suffered in her previous life, those endless days spent silent and motionless.
The thought made her nose sting; her eyes shimmered, threatening tears.
Her voice shook with emotion. “Yves, you’ve been through enough. I’m here now, and for the next six months, I swear I won’t let anyone mistreat you.”
After carefully wiping down his upper body, she reached for the ointment, smoothing it gently over his back. Worried he’d catch a chill, Lindsay quickly helped him into clean pajamas.
Then she moved to help him out of his pants, but as she did, she noticed a physical reaction—something she’d never expected from a man in a coma. A deep blush crept up her face, coloring her cheeks and even the tips of her ears. She’d never been with a man before, and now…
Mortified, Lindsay squeezed her eyes shut and tried to continue, but the moment her hand brushed against his skin, she recoiled as if shocked by static. She could have sworn she heard a muffled groan escape his lips-a low, masculine sound that hammered through her, equal parts shock and hope.
She snapped her eyes open and stared at Yves. “Did you just wake up?”
But his eyes remained firmly closed, his face unmoving-no sign of consciousness at all.
Lindsay hesitated, heart pounding. Had she imagined it? Was her mind playing tricks on her?
“Honey? Was that you just now?”
No answer.
“Yves?”
Still nothing.
She searched his face for a long time, finally deciding she must have been mistaken. It had only been her imagination.
“Well, of course,” she murmured. “In my last life, you didn’t wake up until half a year later. It’s not like my coming back from the dead is going to create some kind of butterfly effect, right?”
Still blushing, Lindsay finished cleaning him up and pulled on his pajama pants. The effort left her drained, and she collapsed onto the sofa to rest for a moment.
When she’d caught her breath, she headed off for a shower.
Maybe it was just the unfamiliar bed, but she found herself tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep. Yves, on the other hand, lay perfectly still beside her, as beautiful and serene as a sleeping prince.
“We’re married now,” she whispered, half-teasing. “You won’t mind being my personal body pillow, will you?”
“You’re not saying no, so I’ll take that as a yes.”
Grinning to herself, Lindsay curled up beside him, draping an arm over his chest and swinging a leg across his. His skin was hot to the touch, almost feverish.
With her human pillow beside her, Lindsay finally drifted off, blissfully unaware of just how uncomfortable Yves actually was.
Morning sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling across the bed and illuminating Lindsay’s delicate features—her skin porcelain-smooth in the golden glow.
She’d turned into a sloth overnight, clinging to Yves with both arms snug around his neck. Follow current novels on
It was the best sleep she’d had in ages, right up until a knock at the door jolted her awake. Blinking, she noticed Yves’ face tinged with red, his body still burning hot.
Frowning in confusion, she reached up to feel his forehead. Warm, but not quite a fever.
The knocking came again, sharper this time, and Lindsay reluctantly slipped out of bed to answer the door.