Page 80 of Beacon

So he helps me get on and then climbs on in front of me, pulling my arms around him.

“Won’t be long,” he tells me. “We aren’t far. But you gotta hold on.”

“Okay.”

“Promise me you’ll hold on.”

“I promise.” I’m going to try, but the world is kind of shaky right now, and it feels like my insides might fall out through that wound on my side.

So I’m not sure how long I’m going to last like this.

I end up making it the whole way, clutching at Mack’s big body desperately as I shake and whimper each time the bumpy trail bounces me around. But I honestly remember almost nothing from that stretch of time. It fades into a blur of anxiety and pain.

I’m so out of it when we reach the cabin that Mack has to carefully pick me up, cradle me in his arms, and carry me inside. He lays me down on his bed and immediately works on taking off my jacket, shoes, and jeans. He leaves me for a moment and returns with his hands full of first aid supplies. Then he rips off what’s left of my shirt, pullsoff the old sports bra I always wear when I travel, and then starts cleaning the wound.

It hurts. So much I’m only half-conscious for a while. But I hear him as he keeps murmuring that I’m all right, it’s not too bad, I’m going to be okay, the pain won’t last long, I just need to get through this, and I’ll feel better soon.

I believe him. Mack doesn’t lie to me.

Finally I’m all bandaged up with tight wrappings, and that means thankfully he’s stopped messing with the parts of me that hurt. He wipes off my face with a wet washcloth and goes to get one of his big T-shirts. He lifts me carefully so he can get it over my head and arms and then pulls the bottom down over my bandages and panties.

“All your shirts,” I say, breathless from the effort. “You ruined two of them. You’re not going to have any left.”

“I’ll get more.” At some point, he must have put on another shirt himself because he’s wearing one now—a familiar light gray T-shirt almost threadbare from so much use.

“But you’re so big it’s hard to find them to fit you.” I’m irrationally concerned about this.

He strokes some stray hairs back from my face. “Anna, the last thing you need to be worrying about is my wardrobe.”

“Why not?”

“Because you were shot.” His fingers shake very brieflyas he caresses my cheekbone. “I thought you were dead for a minute.”

“I thought so too. But I don’t think I’m dying.” I stare up at his face. Some of the blur is fading so I can see his features more clearly. He’s trying to hide it, but he’s still so upset beneath his shaky composure that I gulp. “Am I?”

“No!” Then he adds more calmly, “Seriously, no. The wound is fairly superficial, thank God, but we’re not going to play around with it. You’re going to get treated like an invalid until you’re fully better.”

“Okay.” I smile up at him, reminding myself that I might have been shot but Mack is still alive and he loves me. “But don’t sacrifice any more of your shirts for me. It’s going to be so hard to replace them.”

For more than a week, Mack barely lets me out of bed.

I feel a lot better by the third day, and my wound has closed up and isn’t infected. I let him wait on me and coddle me for a while, but I eventually start getting restless. Impatient. I want to get up. I want to do something. I want to go outside and breathe some fresh air.

After I complain enough, he does help me get outside every day for a few minutes. But it’s been cool and rainy, so it’s not like I’m able to truly enjoy it.

Overall, I’m in a grumpy, frustrated mood, and the only thing keeping me from biting Mack’s head off is thememory of how scared he was and the knowledge of how he’s still anxious that something might go wrong with my healing. Those feelings are prompted by love, so I can’t bring myself to lash out at him the way I’m tempted.

I’m not exactly good company, however, and he looks relieved on the tenth day when he comes in from outside in the morning and announces the sun is out, so he’s going to repair a lawn chair we found in the storage building so I can sit outside for a while if it gets warm enough in the afternoon.

I’m holding my breath for the rest of the morning, hoping clouds won’t blow in to cover the sun. And I’m thrilled when, after a lunch of dehydrated meatloaf sandwiches, Mack checks outside and tells me it’s really nice.

I can walk fine now. Genuinelyfine. But he still walks beside me everywhere I go and expects me to use his arm for support. I wanted to take a shower yesterday, and he let me. He even wrapped my wound in plastic wrap so it wouldn’t get wet. But he insisted on getting in with me to help me soap up and wash my hair. He wouldn’t even let me have a little fun with his hard cock when he got aroused, so the shower was more frustrating than relaxing.

He seems a little less hovery today, however. I’m hopeful he might soon give up his obsessive protectiveness.

I appreciated the caretaking when I wasn’t feelinggood, but I’m mostly fine now, and he’s acting like I’m still wobbling on the precipice of death.

The lawn chair Mack fixed up is a full-length chaise. He’s even padded it with pillows and got a blanket ready to drape over me. I stare down at it, torn between ironic amusement and a sappy sort of fondness.

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