“I’m looking at you like you’re waving a big knife around,” she said. Her leg was throbbing with pain, forcing her to grit her teeth and try to relax. How was she supposed to keep from moving around when it felt as if someone was using a dull saw on her flesh? “And I didn’t exactly try to bash your head in. It wasn’t personal.”

“The knife is to remove the leech from my back. I can’t reach it any other way,” he explained, although why he felt compelled to explain what should have been perfectly obvious, he didn’t know. “And I always take it personally when someone tries to remove my head from my shoulders.”

She made a face. A silly, feminine expression of exasperation. And she did it with little white lines of pain etched around her mouth. It fascinated him, that wholly feminine expression. His stomach did a weird flip.

“You don’t hear me complaining that your little pet chewed off my leg. Men are such babies. It isn’t even that big of a gash.”

He had the urge to laugh. It came out of nowhere, blindsiding him, bursting over him unexpectedly. He didn’t laugh, of course; he frowned at her instead. “You put a hole in my head.”

“You’re going to put a hole in your back with that knife. Stop being macho he-man and let me take that horrible thing off of you.”

His eyebrow shot up. “You want me to put a knife in your hands, lady?”

“Stop calling me lady, it’s becoming annoying.” Pain was beating at her so strongly now that she wanted to throw up again. It was definitely making it hard to think. She kept fear at bay with her usual chatter, but she wouldn’t be able to keep it up for much longer. And she dared not think what might happen then.

“I don’t exactly know your name. Where I come from, lady is a compliment.”

“Not in that tone of voice,” she objected. “Rachael Los…” she trailed off, casting around for a name, any name. She couldn’t think clearly; she’d already forgotten her new name, but it was imperative she hide her identity. Pain throbbed in her head, beat at her body. “Smith.”

If it were possible, his eyebrow went higher. “Rachael Los Smith?” His mouth softened for the briefest of moments, a rusty attempt at a smile. Or a smirk. She couldn’t tell. Her vision was beginning to blur.

Rio moved closer to her, his mouth once more twisting into a frown. “You’re sweating.” His palm settled on her forehead. “Do not get an infection. We’re stuck here without help for the duration of the storm.”