Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

87. Allure

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The large bruise on my stomach had gradually begun to fade after we returned home from Wrath, clearing up completely within a week or two, and with it went a majority of my pain. My wound was slowly getting smaller as well, and over the last couple of months, it had shrunk to about half its size. After being released from the hospital for the second time, I was diligent about keeping it and its dressing in pristine condition — thanks in part to Striker's doting persistence.

"So then, do you feel like you're ready to come back to work?" my manager asked me over the phone.

"Maybe not just yet," I replied, sitting down on the couch. "And if I did, the doctor still wants me on light-duty for at least four more weeks."

"Do you want to try coming back after those four weeks? I'll still put you on light-duty until you feel up to taking on more."

I placed the call on hands-free and pulled up the calendar on my phone, observing that the plan she was offering would leave me returning to work about a week after the new year. "I guess I can do that. I do need the hours — money's starting to get pretty tight."

"I'm sure," she remarked. "That short-term disability only covers so much for so long. Well then, call if anything changes. Feel better, and see you in four weeks!"

Just a few minutes after I ended the call, the front door unlocked, and in walked Striker with a handful of grocery bags. A chilly breeze blew through the door as he walked in, causing me to shiver and grab one of my throw blankets.

"Shut the door, babe, you're letting the cold air in!" I griped, cocooning myself in the blanket.

Striker pushed the door closed with his foot and locked it before approaching the couch, where he bent down and gave me a quick kiss, then straightened back up and headed for the kitchen. "How's stir-fry sound for supper?"

"Delicious," I chimed, listening to him put away the groceries and begin to work on preparing our food. I leaned back on the couch, completely ignoring the rerun playing on the TV, and relaxed to the sounds of him making our meal: the kitchen knife crisply cutting through fresh vegetables, the sizzle of something simmering in a heated pan . . . and the low tune Striker absentmindedly but quietly hummed while he worked.

A warm smile crawled across my face, and at some point in his crooning, I recognized the tune and started to softly accompany him, harmonizing to his baritone melody. It was an old Wrathian folk song that I'd taken quite a liking to after first hearing it back at the hotel; most of the words I'd forgotten by now, but the melody I still knew clearly by heart.

Striker abruptly stopped humming, and I heard him put down a pan and step out of the kitchen. He leaned on the back of the couch, lowering his face until it was only a few inches from mine.

"How do you know that song?" he murmured, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

I looked away and replied bashfully, "Well, when I was staying at the hotel, it was a lot harder to find human music, so I would try to listen to radio stations from the different rings. I ended up listening to the stations from Wrath a lot, and I really liked that one song — they didn't play it very often, though, but I. . ."

I trailed off when Striker gingerly took my chin in his hand and turned my head to face him, and he looked at me with that intense, glowing gaze. His smile widened, his gold fang gleaming in the living room light.

"Woman, you're really makin' me wanna take you into the bedroom and have my way with you right now," he purred.

My face warmed at his words, but I smirked up at him and remarked, "And let our food burn? I don't think so, cowboy."