Creed lay sprawled on the pristine, snow-white bed like an angry lizard who had just survived a forest fire.
His thoughts were an overflowing bowl of steaming soup: hot, boiling, and filled with too many strange ingredients.
The caramel-skinned woman who had saved him—no, judged him—was the core ingredient in that soup, and Creed couldn't stop chewing on her presence no matter how bitter the aftertaste.
Sure, she had saved his life. Technically, she deserved a shrine, a parade, maybe even a star named after her.
But damn if she wasn't also the most cold-blooded, emotionally frigid human to ever lecture someone who had just dodged death.
She hadn't asked him his name, how he felt, or even said, "Glad you're alive."
No, instead she treated him like some idiot who fell into her grocery basket by accident and now she had to deal with it.
Creed respected power. But people who judged others before getting to know them? That he couldn't stand.
