Warriors of Poseidon 04 - Atlantis Unmasked

shh. You‟re weak from blood loss and the crash after the adrenaline rush. It happens after every battle, no matter how big and strong the warrior, so before you even get started, you can stop berating yourself for weakness.”
     
    She raised her head and looked into his eyes—those exotically strange and seductively beautiful eyes. “What do you mean? You said it to me before. Mi amara . What does it mean? You‟re going to have to teach me Atlantean, you know.”
     
    He stared into her eyes for several seconds, unmoving, before apparently coming to some decision. She watched his face as it changed, but she didn‟t know how to read the topography of emotion on the map of his face.
     
    She didn‟t even know what to hope for. All she knew was that he felt like coming home, and it terrified her. She pulled back a little, and he instantly released her.
     
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    “I think we shall have Atlantean language practice another day,” he said, offering up a small smile. “But for now, we‟re going to bandage your side, get you dressed, and get you into bed with some water and hot tea.”
     
    He retrieved the package of bandages that he‟d dropped on the floor when she‟d almost fainted and ripped it open, then returned to the sink and washed his hands. Carefully, but with a sureness born of long practice, he unwrapped a sterile pad and covered her wound. She held the pad in place while he unspooled the roll of bandaging and then wrapped it around and around her waist and ribs until she felt like an extra in a mummy movie. Finally, he stopped wrapping and fastened the bandage with a tiny metal clip from the package.
     
    She let out a sigh, relieved that it was over. “I‟m not afraid of the sight of blood or anything, but I do prefer not to be looking at my own,” she admitted.
     
    He tossed all the packaging in the trash and washed his hands again. “I need to find you a shirt. I‟d give you mine, but it‟s in worse shape than yours was, I think.”
     
    “In the pantry cabinet,” she said, indicating the far corner. “There‟s a pile of spare sweatshirts.”
     
    He crossed to the cabinet and retrieved a bright red shirt with the words EAT AT JOE‟S
    splashed in white across the front. She shook her head, trembling with delayed reaction.
    “No! No, I mean, not red and white. Please.”
     
    His eyebrows drew together for a moment, but then he glanced at the trash can and his forehead smoothed out. “Of course.” He tossed the red shirt back in the cabinet and pulled out a black shirt and quickly shed his own filthy shirt and pulled it on, then grabbed another shirt. It looked about two sizes too large for Grace, but it wasn‟t like she cared about fit. All that mattered was that it had no red or white.
     
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    No scarlet.
     
    She started shaking in earnest, and he quickly helped her into the shirt, helping her hold her arms up like she was a child, then pulling the shirt over her head and lifting her hair up and out from where it was trapped in the soft fleece.
     
    Suddenly Grace knew she had to tell him. Had to let him know that she was hanging on by her fingernails, clinging to the face of the cliff with nothing beneath her to catch her fall.
     
    Nothing but him.
     
    She wanted—needed—to let go and, for once in ten long years of her life, discover whether anybody would be there to catch her. Whether he would be there to catch her.
     
    “Alexios,” she began, but a loud, deep voice boomed through the corridor like thunder trapped in a waterspout, cutting her off.
     
    “Incoming friendly.”
     
    Grace tilted her head. “Tiny?”
     
    Alexios nodded, looking amused. “Tiny.”
     
    She noticed, however, that amusement wasn‟t enough to keep caution at bay. He turned to face the doorway, subtly blocking Grace so that an intruder wouldn‟t have a direct line of fire to her. She noticed it, but for once she was too tired to fight it. Maybe it was blood loss, maybe it was the shock of nearly dumping her emotions out on the table where they could be crushed, but she didn‟t have the energy to argue with Alexios about who had the bigger . . . weapon.
     
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    The man who filled the doorway a moment later was one of the biggest men she‟d ever seen. She had an instant impression of dark hair, dark eyes, and a