The Sleeper's Wrath and His Wife's Strike novel Chapter 62

Lindsay had zero experience—she didn’t even know you were supposed to breathe while kissing. She nearly became the first person in history to suffocate during a make-out session.

Yves finally let her go. Lindsay gasped for air, looking for all the world like a fish flung onto dry land, chest heaving as she drew in desperate breaths.

Yves couldn’t help but chuckle. “It gets easier with practice.”

Lindsay’s fists clenched, ready to punch him, but instead, she grabbed the showerhead and turned on the water. With his legs still weak, Yves had to rely on a wheelchair to bathe.

He relaxed as Lindsay helped him wash, her soft, delicate hands gentle against his skin. The sensation was so soothing it made his body heat up in ways he tried to ignore, his gaze turning hazy.

Lindsay caught the look in his eyes but chose to play dumb, forcing herself to keep helping him rinse off.

“Lindsay…” Yves' voice was strained, but just as he started to say more, Lindsay cut him off. “You just woke up, remember? You need to take care of yourself—don’t overexert, okay?”

Her meaning was clear: he was not to let his mind wander to certain activities that would be, let’s say, less than helpful for his recovery.

Yves gritted his teeth, veins standing out on his forehead, his body nearly feverish.

“Lindsay, just wait outside. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

“You sure you can handle it by yourself?”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point.”

Lindsay didn’t dwell on it. She handed Yves the showerhead. “I’ll be right outside. If you need anything, just call.”

Yves nodded.

Lindsay stepped out, closing the bathroom door behind her. Worried he might slip, she dragged a chair over and sat just outside, listening for any sign he needed help.

Ten minutes passed. No word from Yves.

She kept waiting.

“Mr. Yves, Ms. Nelson—supper is ready.”

***

Downstairs in the dining room, no one had picked up their forks. Yves still hadn’t arrived.

York had come home, while Lester was at the hospital with Althea.

“You’re become quite the celebrity—can’t even sit down for a meal without someone fetching you,” York remarked dryly. He’d never cared much for Althea, but she had given him a son, after all. For Yves to turn on her the moment he woke up—it was just too much.

Yves shot him a frosty glare before looking away, a faint, mocking smile on his lips. “Look at you, actually finding time to eat at home. Don’t you need to be with your beloved?”

York’s affair with Naomi’s mother was an open secret, though no one had dared mention it until now.

At that, Mr. Quigley Sr.’s face darkened. He set his fork down with a loud clatter and demanded, “Are you still seeing Olivia Scott?”