Page 46 of Sanctuary

So I manage to choke out, “I was scared. Scared that you were hurt. I couldn’t have lived with that.”

His expression breaks very briefly. Then he reaches out to hug me—quick and so hard I can barely breathe.

Then he pulls back, takes my face in both his hands, and kisses me. His lips are cold and dry and needy. I reach up to lightly touch his jaw.

When we pull apart, we’re both smiling. He puts his hand on my back again, and we keep walking down toward the church.

We’re inside and he’s pulling the straps from his shoulders to set down the pack when he says, “You didn’t even ask if I got the wine.”

“Well, I figured you did. The backpack looks full.”

“It is.” He unzips it and shows me what’s inside.

“Wow. How many did you get?”

“Eleven. That’s all that was easily accessible. Agatha only asked for eight, so that leaves us three.”

“Nice.” I’m taking off my snow-caked shoes and my jacket, cap, and gloves as we talk. “Wine should be a hot commodity since it’s so hard to come by lately.”

“Yes.” He winces as he pulls his coat off his shoulders.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. What do you mean?”

“I mean you winced like something is hurt. Did you hurt yourself?”

“Nah.” Despite his words, he’s moving carefully as he drops his coat on the floor and then leans over to unlace and pry off his boots.

“Aidan?”

“I got a few bruises from moving the wreckage around. Nothing serious.” His tone is causal and unconcerned, but I don’t believe him.

He’s stiff, being careful about the way he moves.

He’s not going to react well to me demanding an accounting of injuries he’s insisting are minor, so I don’t ask him again. I just watch closely as he takes off his wet gloves and socks and the scarf he wound around his neck.

When he peels off his heavy outer shirt, leaving only a light gray T-shirt with his jeans, I suck in a sharp breath.

“You’re bleeding!”

He glances down at his side. “It’s just a scrape.”

“A scrape? Damn it, Aidan. You’re all beat up.”

“It’s nothing out of the ordinary.” He appears impatient more than anything else, as if he doesn’t want to waste time worrying about his own condition.

“Maybe not, but it’s ridiculous to ignore the fact that you’re bleeding. Can I at least take care of that?”

“If it will stop you from fussing around, then yes.”

I’m annoyed with him now. I don’t appreciate his description of my behavior as fussing. All the soft, intense, jittery feelings I was overwhelmed with earlier are still there, but they’re masked by a layer of exasperation.

The annoyance is a lot safer, so I lean into it.

“Of all the stupid, stubborn, macho… What if that cut gets infected? What will you do then? People have died from less.”

“I know they have,” he mutters. He’s standing perfect still in his jeans and T-shirt. Something about him feels almost wounded in a way that isn’t physical.

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