by Gwyn McNamee
Don’t worry, Warwick. I have you.
Even if he doesn’t want me here. Even if he thinks I should be anywhere else but with him. Even if he’s right and I should be.
17
War
I grit my teeth with the final turn into the warehouse, and when she pulls up outside the door and throws the truck into park, I release a shaky breath.
Fucking gravel road.
Every dip and bump felt like being stabbed again. I wasn’t sure if I would puke or pass out or both and had to fight to keep myself from lashing out at her about something that wasn’t her fault.
Preacher should be waiting for us. I sure as fuck hope with some pain meds because, Christ, this fucking hurts.
I’ve been cut before, but this goes above and beyond. If there’s any internal damage though, I’m fucked.
Rion is a damn good medic, and he’s performed some miracles under worse conditions than what we have here, in fucking war zones being shot at, but he can only do so much. And I’m in Preacher’s hands until Cutter and Rion get back. The basic first aid training he received when he was working for the CIA may help in the meantime, but Rion is the real expert, the one who has always handled any of our injuries—though thankfully always minor—in the past.
This doesn’t feel minor. Yet, Grace has been so cool and calm through all this.
What’s that saying? Grace under pressure?
That’s her to a T.
And fuck if it doesn’t make me like her even more.
She shouldn’t have been there tonight. She should have been at the hotel, with me and everything about this entire fucked-up situation in the past.
But if she hadn’t been, I don’t think I would have made it to the truck, let alone been able to drive back here. Even waiting for E to be able to get me, if I’d managed to call him, might have been a deadly delay.
As it stands now, it feels like being at death’s door.
Grace turns off the engine and throws her door open. The ten seconds it takes for her to race around to my side gives me time to take a steadying breath and to try to hide how much fucking pain I’m in.
My door opens, and she reaches for me. “Come on, big guy.”
“Let me help.” Preacher’s deep, steady voice comes from somewhere behind her. He pushes her out of the way and reaches for me.
“I’m fine.”
He scowls as he slides one of his arms under my shoulders and around my back to ease me out of the car. I clench my teeth, and he drags me from the seat.
The wounds on my side and my arm smart like a motherfucker.
He pulls me to my feet outside the truck. “What happened?”
I glance toward Grace.
What does it matter if I say anything in front of her? She literally knows everything now.
“Two guards. The first guy was easy. The second guy was waiting for me once I was already on Neptune’s Daughter.”
Preacher half-drags/half-walks me toward the warehouse. Grace trails behind silently.
“I didn’t even get a chance to try to set up the transfer over to The Destiny. He ordered me down, and he was armed. I got the jump on him, but he somehow got the knife out and cut my arm and stuck it in my side before I could disarm him.”
“Shit.” Preacher throws the door open and wrangles me over to the table in the center of the warehouse. “Get up.”
Milo whimpers at our feet, his huge brown eyes heavy with concern.
I glower at Preacher. “Like it’s that fucking easy.”
It’s not like I can jump right up there.
I help the best I can to get my ass up on the table. The motion sends pain lancing through my body.
Preacher reaches into a large blue Tupperware tote on one of the chairs and grabs a pair of scissors that he uses to cut away my shirt from my arms and torso. I keep my hand pressed against the wound, holding the material in place.
“Take off your hand so I can look at this.”
I let it fall away, and a warm rush of blood flows from the wound.
Motherfucker.
Preacher looks behind him. “Grace, I need your help.”
She rushes forward from the foot of the table where she’s been standing watching everything with watery, wide green eyes.
“In the blue bin, you’ll find rubbing alcohol, a suture kit, and some bottles with different pain medications. Find the Percocet ten milligrams.”
I want the damn pain meds. I want them more than I even want to admit, but I need to keep my head. “No meds.”
Preacher glares at me. “Don’t be an asshole. You’re in a lot of pain. You’re gonna be in a lot more once I start cleaning and stitching this shit, so take the goddamn medicine.”
I gnash my teeth at him.
He presses his hand against the wound, and the world goes black for a split-second.
“Okay, I’ll take the pain meds.”
The sound of Grace rummaging through the box hits my ears as Preacher pokes and prods at me.
“The good news is, I don’t think it hit any vital organs or any arteries. If it had, you’d be bleeding a hell of a lot worse. But, if you just nicked something in there, there’s no way to really tell. Maybe we should wait for Rion.”
“Just stitch me up.”
Preacher and Grace exchange a look, but I’m too exhausted and weak to question it. She hands him the items he asked for and pops open the bottle of pills.
“Open your mouth.” She drops two into my mouth and then presses a bottle of water to my lips.
I tilt my head up and down them.
Shit.
I would prefer to stay as alert as possible right now, but Preacher’s right. If I go into shock from the pain, it’s not helping anyone.
“Sorry, man, this is gonna hurt.”
Grace’s tiny hand tightens on my shoulder, and Preacher pours the bottle of rubbing alcohol on my side.
“Motherfucker!” I bow up from the table, but Preacher’s strong hand against my chest holds me down.
“Lie down.”
I grit my teeth and drop back down. He pulls at the wound with his fingers, lifting the skin, and rinses it again.
“Fuck! Can you make that any more painful?”
His hard eyes dart to mine. “I can if you keep bitching.”
My teeth are about to crack. Blackness invades the edges of my vision whenever I try to open my eyes. My stomach turns.
Grace’s hand tightens on my shoulder again, and I open my eyes to meet hers.
Concern laces their green depths.
Why does she give a shit if I’m in pain?
She should hate me. I fucking kidnapped her and held her here against her will. The last thing she should be looking at me with is concern. She never should have come back.
“There. We’re done cleaning it out.”
I shift to knock her hand off my shoulder. I can’t think straight with Preacher digging around inside me and her leaning over me looking all innocent and worried.
“Let’s get you stitched up, and then I can deal with that arm.”
Shit.
I close my eyes and drop my head back against the table.
“Here we go, man.”
I wrap my hands around the sides of the table and grip tightly as he slides the needle through my skin the first time. My clenched jaw aches, and every muscle in my body burns trying to bite back the scream clawing its way up my throat.
Grace’s hand lands back on my shoulder, and she stiffens, almost as if she can feel the pain every time Preacher slides the thread through my skin and tightens it.
I don’t know how many stitches he makes or how long it takes, but it feels like a fucking eternity.
“We’re done.”
A sigh of relief slips from my lips.
Preacher slaps gauze over it and tapes it in place. “We need to watch for infection or any signs you might have internal bleeding. Don’t be a fucking cowboy. You have to tell Rion how you feel.
He can’t help you if he doesn’t know what’s going on.”
Fucking Preacher.
He’s just trying to help, but the mothering, I could do without. I had one of those, and she died. He reaches up and twists my arm toward him. I clench my jaw.
“This one’s just a scratch. A couple stitches at most.” The rubbing alcohol hits it, and I flinch and gnash my teeth.
He chuckles, and Grace glowers at him and then offers me a soft smile.
Half a dozen stitches later, he bandages me up and piles the garbage at the end of the table. “Go lie down. That Percocet is gonna kick in soon, and you’re not gonna want to be vertical.”
“No. Arturo only gave us ‘til tomorrow. We need to figure out what we’re going to do.”
Preacher shakes his head. “Christ, you’re as stubborn as a fucking mule. I thought some of the guys in Afghanistan were bad, but you’re far worse.”
Grace eyes him speculatively. She’s been slowly collecting information on the guys anytime anyone lets anything slip. I can see her mentally processing the information. She now knows their names—at least their nicknames—and now she knows Preacher was overseas.
If she wants to betray us, she has more than enough to take us down.
But she didn’t betray us today, did she?
I let her go, and she came back.
So why can’t I put that to bed?
There’s too much at stake for me to blindly trust her, no matter how beautiful she is, no matter how accommodating she seems to be, no matter how much I want to believe she sees the necessity of what we’re doing.
“Go lie down.”
I push myself to a sitting position and groan. “Fuck.” With my hand pressed to my side, I swing my legs over the side of the table. My head swims. Darkness encroaches on my vision again, along with something else. The dulling effects of the Percocet are kicking in.
My feet hit the floor, and my legs wobble. I grip the edge of the table for support.
Grace slides her arm around my back to support me.
Funny how the pixie is the one I’ve been leaning on.
I chuckle to myself, and they both cast me strange looks.
Maybe these meds are kicking in faster than I thought.
I half-stumble and Grace half-drags me across the warehouse floor to the stairs. They might as well be Mount Everest.
How the hell am I getting up those?
I bite back a curse and grab the handrailing.
“You going to make it?” Grace peers up at me with those soft, innocent eyes.
I sneer at her. “I’m fine.” I pull my arm from around her shoulder and shift my weight to the railing. Each step sends a jolt of pain to my side but I push forward to the light at the end of the tunnel. Bed.
Grace’s little gasps of concern as we move up the stairs make me grit my teeth. Nothing is worse than being weak in front of a woman you’re attracted to. Except maybe being attracted to a woman you kidnapped. The woman who should want nothing to do with you, yet she stays around.
She opens the door for me.
“Thank you.” I somehow grit out the words before I wobble into the bedroom where the rumpled bed—evidence of where she slept for the last two nights—practically calls my name.
I glance down at myself and groan. Blood soaks my pants and is caked on my side and my hands. I need to clean up before I do anything else, but the thought of walking all the way to the bathroom, starting the shower, stripping, and getting in is just too daunting at the moment.
The room spins slightly, and I grab the dresser for support and close my eyes trying to gather what little strength I have left to fight the pain meds and make it to the bathroom.
A small warm hand lands against my bare shoulder. “We need to get you cleaned up.”
I open my eyes just in time to watch her disappear into the bathroom. The water starts, and she reappears.
Her eyes drift down to my side and then up to my arm. She frowns. “We really shouldn’t get this wet, but you’re filthy. We just can’t stay in for long.”
We?
The word vaguely registers in my foggy brain before she steps up to me and her hands go to my waist. I catch her wrist.
“What are you doing?”
She sighs. “Helping you get undressed.”
“I can do it myself.”
“Can you?” Her red eyebrows rise.
I push myself off the dresser in a fit of arrogance and grab for my zipper with a wince. Pain radiates up my arm and through my side. Through the room spinning, soft hands find me and lean me back against the dresser.
“Let me help you.”
I’m too dizzy to argue so she unbuttons my pants and shoves them down my legs. My cock stirs. She reaches for the waistband of my boxers.
Down boy. This is absolutely not the time for that.
She pulls them down while averting her eyes, but I don’t fail to catch the slight gasp when my semi-hard cock springs free.
I bite back a chuckle as she rises to her feet and slides her arm around my back.
“Let’s go.”
She manages to wrangle me into the bathroom and help me step into the shower stall.
The hot water stings my chest but I step into the spray and turn my face up to it.
God, it feels good.
I didn’t know how badly I needed to get clean until I stepped in here.
The shower curtain rustles. I jerk my head toward it and plant one hand against the wall to keep me upright. I stare at Grace, and she examines me for a moment before quirking one of those damn eyebrows at me.
“Need help?”
Christ, that would be the ultimate embarrassment.
Being unable to take a goddamn shower myself.
Despite how badly everything in me is screaming yes get her naked in the water with you, I shake my head. “No. I’m okay.”
She sighs and slides the shower curtain shut. “I’m staying right here in case you pass out and kill yourself.”
Gee, thanks for that image.
I reach for the shampoo with my free hand. The movement sends a slice of pain through my abdomen and arm, but I bite back the curse.
Show no weakness. She’s already seen enough.
I shampoo my head with my good arm and step back into the spray to let it rinse out. Handling the bar of soap proves difficult. It slips from my fingers and clatters to the tile.
“Shit.”
“Need help?”
I grunt. “No.”
Deep breath. You got this.
I inhale as much as my side will allow and bend down to grab it. The motion sends the world spinning, and I slap my hand against the wall to keep from face-planting into it. I grab the soap and slowly rise again.
Scrubbing away the blood from my body helps release some of the tension from the day. I carefully move the soap around where the bandages cover the stitches.
“We need to change your bandages as soon as you get out.”
God, it’s like she’s psychic or something.
“Are you sure you’re okay? I am going to run down to grab some fresh supplies.”
“I’m fine.” The words come out more growl than speech, and she sighs and leaves the bathroom with some mumbled curses under her breath.
If she wasn’t completely fed up with me before, she is now. Maybe that will help keep her at arm’s length where she should be.
The soaps rinses from my body under the spray, and I shut the water off. Footsteps in the room alert me to her return. I grab for the shower curtain and pitch forward. The world spins, and my vision goes hazy. I squeeze my eyes shut.
I’m not entirely sure if it’s from the drugs or maybe blood loss. Either way, it’s not good if I want to stay upright.
My good hand finds the wall, and I take several deep breaths before I reopen my eyes and pull the curtain back. She stands in the doorway with a towel in one hand.
I have to give her credit; her eyes stay locked on mine and
don’t drift south down my wet, naked body. Were we in different positions, I can’t say I would be a gentleman and not look.
She shakes the towel in invitation and holds out her hand. I just stare at it for a minute before the room spins again.
Fuck.
I don’t have a choice. If I try to step out of here without some help, I will end up flat on my ass or cracking my head open. I accept her proffered hand, and she helps me climb out of the shower and onto the cracked tile floor of the bathroom.
She quickly wipes my back and legs and then gingerly dries my arm around the wound there.
“I can do that myself.”
Her warm breath floats across my damp skin, raising goose bumps. “You can barely stand up. Don’t be stupid.”
She moves around in front of me, and her green eyes flick up to meet mine. Delicate hands gingerly brush over my chest and down my side to the wound there.
Every stroke of her hand has my cock stirring a little bit more.
I jerk the towel from her hand and wrap it around my waist, gritting my teeth at the pain that slices through me at the abrupt movement. “I got it.”
She rolls her eyes and steps back with her hands raised. “Whatever you say. Now, let me recover those stitches.” She turns and steps back into the room, leaving me alone momentarily to consider what a clusterfuck of a situation I’ve created.
And now, with my ability to think being fogged not only by the drugs but also the touching from and presence of this woman, I’m incapable of seeing a way out of the situation.
At least, not one that ends without me and the guys dead.
“You coming?” Her lilting voice floats in from the bedroom.
I wish.
18
Grace
He stumbles out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped precariously around his waist. Steam floats around him from the tiny room.
Water still trickles down various parts of his body I missed. I follow one particular rivulet as it courses down from his shoulder, over his tattooed and hard pecs, through the valley of his abs, and disappears into the towel right at that little V thingy.
Heat stirs low in my belly—truly inappropriate given the circumstances, yet there all the same.
