Taming My Time-Traveling Lover in My Bed: The Savage King

The smell hit her first.

It wasn't the usual mustiness of her bedroom or the faint lavender of the sachets she kept in the linen closet. It was thick, metallic, and raw. It coated the back of her throat, pulling her up from the depths of a dreamless sleep.

Katherine opened her eyes, blinking against the darkness. The air conditioning hummed its steady rhythm, but a strange chill crept over her skin. She shivered, pulling the duvet tighter.

Her hand slid across the sheet to adjust her position, and her fingers brushed against something wet.

She froze.

It was cold. Sticky. It soaked into the fabric under her palm, clinging to her skin. A sickening slide of liquid against her knuckles.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She snatched her hand back, sitting bolt upright in the bed. The movement made the liquid squelch beneath her.

She stared into the dark, her breath coming in short, shallow puffs. She reached out blindly, her fingers finding the brass lamp on the nightstand. She fumbled for the switch, her hands shaking so badly she nearly knocked it over.

Click.

Yellow light flooded the space, stinging her eyes. She looked down at her hand.

Red. Dark, wet, sticky red.

Blood.

A gasp tore from her throat. She scrambled backward, her spine pressing against the headboard of the massive four-poster bed. It was the bed she had bought just last week at Sotheby's-the supposed final resting place of some long-dead European king-and it dominated the attic-turned-master-suite she had renovated two years ago, the centerpiece of her private sanctuary. Now, it was a crime scene.

Her eyes drifted to the left.

A man lay beside her.

He was enormous, taking up more than half the mattress. He was dressed in what looked like a costume-dark velvet coat, gold embroidery, heavy fabrics that belonged in a museum. But the velvet was torn, and the gold thread was stained black with blood.

A low, ragged groan escaped his lips.

Panic seized her chest like a vice. Her throat closed up, choking off the scream that desperately wanted to come out. She couldn't make a sound. She could only stare as the man shifted, his face twisting in pain even in his unconscious state.

He was dying. Right there, in her bed.

She had to get out. She had to call the police.

She slid toward the edge of the mattress, moving inch by inch. Her feet touched the cold hardwood floor. She stood up, her legs trembling beneath her.

Her heel caught on the leg of a standing mirror.

Crash.

The mirror tipped over, the wood smacking against the floor with a deafening thud.

The man's eyes flew open.

They were a pale, piercing blue, the color of winter ice. And they were instantly alert, instantly violent.

Before Katherine could even draw a breath, his hand shot out. He grabbed something from the mattress beside him.

Steel flashed in the lamplight.

He struggled to sit up, hissing in pain as he propped himself against the headboard, ignoring the wound in his abdomen that immediately started gushing fresh blood. He raised a short, ornate sword, the blade gleaming with a deadly edge.

He pointed it directly at her throat.

"Who are you?" His voice was a coarse whisper, but the authority in it was absolute. It was a command, not a question.

Katherine pressed her back against the wall. The tip of the sword was less than an inch from her skin. She could feel the cold radiating from the steel.

Her mind raced, trying to process the impossible. A cosplayer? A lunatic escapee from a psych ward? A burglar who got hurt and broke into her house?

She looked at his clothes. The fabric was real velvet. The gold thread was actual gold. The sword wasn't plastic; it was forged steel. This wasn't a cheap Halloween costume.

His icy eyes swept the room, taking in the lamp, the air purifier humming in the corner, the electric outlets. Confusion and hostility warred in his gaze.

"What is this place?" he demanded, the sword inching closer. "A witch's lair?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Katherine choked out, her voice barely a whisper. "This is my home. I don't know how you got in."

His arm trembled. The loss of blood was taking its toll. His face was ashen, his lips tinged blue. But his grip on the sword didn't waver.

He was going to kill her, or he was going to die trying.

Her mind screamed at her to run, to call the police, but another, colder thought cut through the panic. The tabloids. "Davenport Heiress in Bloody Bedroom Brawl." Her family's name, her name, dragged through the mud. The scandal would be a stain she could never wash out. That thought, the terror of public humiliation, was a strange and powerful anchor in the storm of fear. She had to survive this, but she also had to control it.

She forced herself to meet his icy stare. She raised her hands slowly, showing him her palms.

"You're bleeding out," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "You're going to die if you don't let someone help you."

His eyes narrowed, but he didn't strike.

"Maybe," she continued, taking a tiny risk, "maybe I can help you."

His blue eyes flickered with surprise, but it was quickly swallowed by suspicion.

"You wish to use your sorcery on me?" he rasped, his chin lifted in defiance despite the deathly pallor of his skin.

Katherine kept her hands raised, her pulse thudding in her ears.

"It's not sorcery," she said firmly. "It's science. Medicine."

She had to make him understand. She couldn't fight him; she had to outsmart him.

"I have some medical training," Katherine said. It wasn't entirely a lie. She had taken a wilderness first responder course before a charity expedition to Patagonia three years ago-a course that had covered wound cleaning, basic suturing, and emergency antibiotic use in backcountry situations. Far more than the CPR class most of her peers had breezed through at charity luncheons. "I have a medical kit right here."

She pointed with her chin toward the metal box in the corner.

"Medicine?" he repeated the word like it was a curse.

A fresh wave of pain hit him. He doubled over slightly, a groan escaping his clenched teeth. The sword wavered, dropping a fraction of an inch.

Katherine saw her opening.

"You don't have a choice," she said, her voice hard. "You can either trust me, or you can bleed to death on my sheets. Your sword can't kill blood loss."

He stared at her, his chest heaving. He was assessing her, weighing his options. She met his gaze head-on, refusing to show the terror that was making her stomach churn.

Finally, he gave a slight nod.

"Where is it?" he asked, the command still present in his weak voice.

"Over there." She pointed again. "I need to walk over there to get it."

He gestured with the sword, permitting her to move, but his eyes never left her.

Katherine walked slowly, every step deliberate. She could feel his gaze boring into her back like a laser. She reached the red metal box on the shelf and popped it open.

Inside, everything was neatly organized. Alcohol pads, gauze, medical tape, a suture kit, a bottle of ibuprofen, and an emergency blister pack of broad-spectrum antibiotics-leftovers from the dental surgery she'd had the previous spring. Katherine took a steadying breath. She grabbed the alcohol and a stack of gauze.

She turned back to him. "I need to clean the wound. It's going to hurt."

He let out a bitter laugh that turned into a cough. "This pain is nothing compared to a single lie at a royal banquet."

Katherine paused, thrown off by the bizarre statement. She didn't have time to decipher his delusions.

She approached the bed, the smell of blood overwhelming the antiseptic scent of the alcohol. Her stomach roiled, but she swallowed the bile down.

She reached out to unbutton his ruined coat.

Instantly, his body went rigid. The sword snapped back up, pressing against her collarbone.

"Do not touch me!" he snarled, his eyes wild.

Katherine jumped back, her hands flying up again. "I have to see the wound to fix it! The alcohol will ruin your coat anyway!"

She realized her mistake. In his twisted mind, she was probably violating some sort of noble honor code.

He hesitated, looking down at his blood-soaked shirt. It was a garment of obvious quality, now reduced to rags. A flash of pain crossed his face that had nothing to do with his injury.

With a grimace, he reached up with his free hand. His fingers fumbled with the buttons, shaking from the effort, before he simply ripped the fabric open, exposing his stomach.

The gash was ugly. It was deep, the edges ragged and inflamed. It looked like a blade had sliced him open.

Katherine took a deep breath. She soaked a gauze pad in alcohol.

"This is going to burn." she warned.

She pressed the pad to his skin.

His entire body jerked. The muscles in his abdomen contracted violently. A hiss of air escaped his teeth, but he didn't scream. He didn't even groan. He just sat there, his jaw locked, his eyes squeezed shut, enduring the agony in silence.

Katherine worked quickly, wiping away the blood and dirt. She was amazed by his tolerance. He had a will of iron.

As she cleaned the area near his ribs, her knuckles brushed against his skin. It was burning hot. He was running a terrible fever.

She finished wrapping the wound with gauze, securing it tightly. The bleeding slowed, but the infection was still there, simmering beneath the surface.

He leaned back against the headboard, his chest heaving. The sword slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the mattress. He was too weak to hold it anymore.

He was at her mercy.

The bedroom was quiet except for the sound of his labored breathing.

Katherine reached out and placed the back of her hand against his forehead. The heat was terrifying.

"You have a fever," she said. "The wound is infected."

He knocked her hand away, his eyes snapping open. They were glassy with fever but still fierce.

"I know my own body," he muttered.

In his time, an infection like this was a death sentence. She knew that, even if he didn't want to admit it.

She turned back to the medical kit. She picked up the blister pack of antibiotics and the bottle of water.

She popped out two capsules. They were half red, half white. She held them out to him on her palm.

"Take these," she said. "They'll kill the bacteria and bring down the fever."

He stared at the capsules in her hand like she was offering him a live snake.

"What is this?" he asked, his lip curling. "An alchemist's pill?"

"It's medicine," she explained, trying to keep her voice patient. "It's made of penicillin. It's a mold extract that kills bad things in your body." She was parroting what the wilderness course instructor had drilled into them, hoping it sounded authoritative enough to convince a man who would probably think paracetamol was witchcraft.

Her explanation was clearly the wrong approach.

"Mold?" he repeated, his voice dripping with disgust. "You wish to cure me with rot?"

He swatted her hand away. The capsules went flying, bouncing off the floorboards.

"I will not take your poison," he declared, his hand fumbling for the sword again.

Katherine's patience snapped. She was tired, scared, and her hand was covered in his blood.

"It's not poison!" she yelled. "It's going to save your life!"

She might as well have been talking to a brick wall. He was a product of his time, whatever time that was, and he wasn't going to be convinced by modern science.

"You are too eager for me to consume it," he said coldly. "That only proves it is suspect."

He would rather die than take a pill from a stranger. It was a twisted logic, but it was his logic.

Katherine took a deep breath, trying to calm down. She couldn't force it down his throat. She had to play his game.

She bent down and picked up the two capsules. She blew the dust off them. Then, she popped out a third one from the blister pack.

She placed one capsule in front of herself and pushed the other two toward him on the nightstand.

"You think it's poison, right?" she asked, looking him dead in the eye. "In your world, how do you test for poison?"

He paused, his fevered brain processing her words. A flicker of understanding crossed his face. Silver probes. Food tasters. It was the royal way.

"You first." he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Katherine almost hesitated. She had taken this same antibiotic before, after a root canal the previous year. She knew she was not allergic. The physical risk was minimal-but the psychological gamble was enormous. Then she thought of the tabloid headlines, of the blood already soaking into her priceless antique mattress, and of the fact that if this man died in her bed, no explanation in the world would save her. She grabbed the capsule, twisted the cap off the water bottle, and swallowed it dry. She held her mouth open to show him it was gone.

He watched her, his eyes wide with shock at her boldness.

Katherine capped the water and set it down. She spread her arms wide.

"Now we wait," she said. "We wait to see if I drop dead. But your fever? It isn't going to wait."

It was a gamble. She was forcing his hand. She was making him choose between his paranoia and his life.

He stared at her, searching her face for any sign of deceit. She stared right back, refusing to blink.

A violent shiver wracked his body. His teeth chattered. The fever was winning.

He couldn't wait.

With a trembling hand, he reached for the two capsules. He picked them up, holding them like they were made of glass. He looked at her one last time, memorizing her features, as if he wanted to remember the face of the woman who had either saved or killed him.

Then, he put them in his mouth and took a long drink of the water.

He swallowed.