Hansel 2: An Erotic Fairy Tale Read Online Free PDF Page A

going to call a doctor or a nurse? Do you have someone like that here?”
    Raymond shakes his head. “No doctor.”
    God, that’s weird.
    “Well I know all the basics. If you have a first aid kit?”
    Raymond presses his lips together. “I’m not sure how he would feel if—”
    “I helped him?”
    He nods.
    “I signed an NDA, remember?”
    He nods slowly, obviously checking me out, trying to discern some ulterior motive. “If you’re sure…” His mouth pinches as he hands me a business card. “Here’s my number. Call me. Update me. I’ve been with him for a long time.”
    “You care about him. I can see that.”
    He isn’t satisfied until he asks ‘Edgar’ how he is, and Hansel nods and gives a little smile.
    “Is she still here?” he asks, blinking slowly. He looks around the room, and when his eyes find me, he grins a little. “That’s Leah,” he says to Raymond.
    “You mind if she stays here?”
    He starts to shake his head, then winces. “I want her to,” he whispers.
    “Okay.” Raymond slaps his knee.
    Finally, the man leaves. Hansel’s eyes stay shut, and I have a moment of panic wondering what to do with him. Raymond didn’t mention the First Aid kit. Is there one? I rush into the kitchen and check a few cabinets, finding a fully stocked kitchen but no First Aid kit. I check the guest bathroom and there are three. A creepy feeling wriggles through me as I think of what they’re for. Submissives, cleaning themselves up? Cleaning him up?
    I open one and go back to where he’s sitting on the couch. I clean the wound on his head—he doesn’t move at all, or even open his eyes—and then peek under his shirt at the wound there. I don’t see a puncture wound, but there is clearly blood covering the right side of his abs.
    Deciding I will figure this out in the bathroom, I place my hand on his cheek. “Wake up…Edgar?”
    His eyes flutter.
    “Can you get up? I’ll help you.”
    I tuck my shoulder under his arm and push upward, urging him to his feet. I wrap my arm around his back and lead him through his bedroom. He walks haltingly, as if each step is almost too much for his legs. In the bathroom, he looks in the mirror for a long moment. I try to see what’s in his mind, but his face is so stoic. So blank.
    I look around, hoping to find a comfortable spot, but the leather couches are firm and cold—I remember that—and the plush rugs covering the floor look both clean and soft.
    I ease him down, and he settles cross-legged, lids low, head slightly bowed.
    “Edgar?” His eyelids flutter just a little, then slide shut. I touch his knee. “Hey—um, can you help me get your shirt off?”
    He doesn’t move, so I look in the First Aid kit and pull out a tiny pair of sharp scissors. I consider the shirt a moment: white, and stained with crimson, before cutting up the back and pulling it down his big, hard arms in the front.
    It falls to the floor, and he peeks one eye open, holding my gaze for an unknowable second before shutting his eyes again.
    I run my gaze down him, stunned by the number of bruises.
    “Harder. Do it harder.”
    Something cool and fluttery settles at the bottom of my throat. I can’t look at his face as I check each of the bruises. I lift his arm and find a neat tear high up on his side, near the top of his ribcage. It’s at least three inches long, and…really…open. I suck back a breath and rifle in the kit, coming out with a neat square of gauze. I rip it open, press it over the wound, then move it off and rustle for a disinfectant. The next few minutes, while I doctor the wound and worry over whether it needs stitches, Hansel is quiet and still, sitting up but clearly somewhere else.
    The moment that I’m finished, he lays down on his unhurt side, his cheek on the inside of his bicep, his body slightly curled, the way I think he always was when he would talk to me. He doesn’t even open his eyes again before he starts getting sick.
    “Shit!”
    I roll