Shiori choked, and Knox immediately handed her a glass of water.

Dr. Ballard smiled. “You’re officially discharged. I’ll send an orderly in with a wheelchair.” She eyed Shiori’s pants. “And something else to wear out of the hospital. I can tell that’s not blood, but the folks in the waiting room can’t.” She swept out of the room.

That’s when he realized he didn’t have a vehicle here to take her home. Classes had started at Black Arts, so none of them were available. He used Shiori’s phone and found the contact he wanted. The person who answered started the conversation by apologizing profusely. “Yes, I’ll relay your apologies and recovery wishes to Ms. Hirano. But right now we’re stranded at Denver Memorial General since she rode here in an ambulance.” He listened. “That would be great. Emergency exit in fifteen minutes. Thank you.” He hung up.

Shiori narrowed her eyes.

“What? They at least owe you a ride from here.”

She grabbed the notepad.

YOU ARE TAKING ME TO MY PLACE?

Knox shook his head. “You’ll stay with me.”

NO.

“Yes.” He got right in her stubborn face. “As your submissive, it is my right, my duty, and my honor to take care of my Mistress. My house is a better option.”

WHY?

“Because your penthouse is a damn fortress. Everyone from Black Arts will want to see if you’re okay. The security checks at your building would be exhausting. There are no grocery stores within five miles of your place.”

She sighed.

FINE.

Knox kissed her forehead. “Thank you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE first night Shiori spent under Knox’s care had been a bit of a blur. She’d slept a lot. In Knox’s arms on the couch and then in his big bed.

When she woke the morning of the second day, she’d hobbled into his shower, surprised by how sore she felt—every bone in her body ached. Standing under the hot spray did wonders, though, and she felt a million times better. She wrapped a big bath sheet around her body and stopped in front of the sink.

Shiori hadn’t actually looked in a mirror since the accident. She opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue. Her stomach roiled, and she made it to the toilet before she threw up. Twice. Once she was reasonably certain she was done hurling, she flushed and faced the mirror again.

Tentatively, she stuck her tongue out again and studied it with a critical eye. Damn lucky she hadn’t bitten it off, so she should be grateful. But it sucked not to talk. She couldn’t eat anything, and she had to ice it once an hour. She dumped a capful of mouthwash in her mouth and swished it around, squeezing her eyes shut against the zing of pain when the alcohol soaked the injuries. After a minute or so she spit it out, then put a dot of toothpaste on her toothbrush and gently cleaned her teeth.

Without any of her own clothes here, she raided Knox’s T-shirt and sweatpants drawer. She combed out her hair and ventured out of the bedroom to find Knox.

But the kitchen and the living room were eerily empty. She glanced out the front window but didn’t see his pickup.

Daytime TV held no appeal. She really hated being stranded in a strange place with nothing to do.

Sleep. You’re supposed to be resting.

Next she meandered through Knox’s living room, looking at the objects he’d chosen to display. A warm, sweet feeling bloomed in her chest when she saw the picture she’d painted for him front and center on the mantel. He had a bunch of military history books and several piles of martial-arts magazines. She grabbed a stack of those and curled up on the coach.

Some of the magazines were older—as much as five years. Tucked in the middle of the stack was an issue of American Jujitsu Association. The front cover included a headline that the ten best dojos in the United States were listed inside. She flipped to the article and her heart leaped at seeing Black Arts in Denver, Colorado, listed as number three. There was a breakdown of why each dojo had been chosen, the owner and the instructing staff. Her stomach dropped when she saw the list:

Sensei Ronin Black, seventh-degree black belt

Beck Leeds, fifth-degree black belt

Gunnar Whatley, fifth-degree black belt

Brody Pearson, fifth-degree black belt

Knox Lofgren, fourth-degree black belt

Ito Tohora, third-degree black belt

Langston Reed, third-degree black belt

Shiori closed her eyes. The reason those men were no longer employed at Black Arts was her fault. Because of Naomi. When it came out that Naomi had been paid to be with Ronin, he immediately suspected that Beck, Gunnar, and Langston were also spies planted by their grandfather. He’d fired them without giving them a chance to defend themselves. In the aftermath, she’d questioned Ojisan and he’d sworn he’d never meddled in Ronin’s professional life.