Page 113 of Between Now and Always

“You’re going to give yourself wrinkles.” He reaches to smooth a finger of my forehead and I slap his hand away.

“I hope you’re never incapacitated like this because you’ll look back on the way you’re treating me and the guilt will eat you alive.”

I harrumph, and try to move onto my side. Too late, I remember the cast on my arm and wince when my arm protests.

“Fucking cast.” I settle for turning my head to face the other wall and want to cry when my neck protests, too.

He sighs, “Beth. Come on, I’m sorry. Look at me, please?” he says in a voice completely devoid of the teasing tone he’s used all day.

He presses a kiss to my cheek sounds sincere so I turn cautiously, half expecting him to be grinning. But he’s not, his green eyes are warm with sympathy and he strokes my cheek.

I inhale the clean mint of his scent and hate that we haven’t done more than share kisses like this since I left the hospital. He, and everyone else, is treating me like I’m made of spun glass.

“I know it’s been rough, I was just trying to make you laugh I was going to surprise you, but I made us dinner plans tonight. I picked up a few dresses that should accommodate your cast while I was out this morning.”

And now I feel like an ungrateful asshole for making him feel the need to apologize. Because he’s right. As far as convalescence goes, this must be the Cadillac of set ups.

“You did?” I ask, giving him a shamefaced smile. He swipes his thumb over my bottom lip and he presses down on the center of my lip, pushing his the tip into my mouth. It’s the first taste of him I’ve had all week and I moan before I suck on salty offering.

Green fire flares in his eyes and I flick the pad of his thumb with my tongue.

He pulls it out again and swipes it over my lips.

“Of course, you did. You always take such good care of me,” I say and then press a kiss to his thumb.

The heat in his eyes cools, he pulls his thumb out. He’s been doing this all week, and I’m not sure why, but I decide that I’m not going to wait for him to tell me.

“Is it…my bruises?” I ask him the horrible thought that’s been niggling at me since the first time he pulled away like that.

He brow creases in a severe frown. “What?”

“Is that why you won’t touch me?”

The regret that flares in his eyes gives me his answer before he speaks it.

“No way. Oh my god. No.” He sits up I reach up to stroke his cheek.

“Then tell me what it is. Because it’s something.”

He closes his eyes and a low growl rumbles in his chest. I place my hand over his heart and rub small circles until he covers my hand with his, brings it up to his lips for a kiss and then finally opens his eyes again and the torment in them makes me so sad. But I don’t say anything, I just wait for him to talk.

“I didn’t take care of you. And because of that, I almost lost you. And every time I remember that, I can’t breathe.”

Tears sting my eyes. “Carter, it’s not your fault.”

“I’ll never forget the terror I felt when we got to the house. I have never prayed so hard in my life and I don’t even want to think about what might have been if we’d been five minutes later. But that fire…it was deliberate. You were shot, beaten, your arm is broken, at the hands of people you’ve made sacrifices for. People whose fucking job it is to keep you safe. And these bruises…” he trails his fingers over them in feather soft strokes that are in stark contrast to the flinty anger in his eyes. “I’m sorry that I didn’t get a chance to put a bullet in the motherfuckers who did this to you. I know it’s wrong… I shouldn’t be consumed by that feeling the way I am.” His chest heaves as if he’s just dropped a heavy weight and his eyes are bleak as he watches me, waiting for me to condemn him.

But, I don’t know what to say.

Fiona’s willingness to let her own daughter die - the abject horror of that act, it made me wish death on her and the people who spawned her. For all of his evil, even Andrew Wolfe wasn’t capable of that. I don’t have any qualms about my conviction that the world is better without her in it.

“I don’t know if it’s wrong. But I feel the same way, except my thoughts are decoupled from the shame you’re feeling. Maybe there’s something wrong with me, too.”

He shakes his head, sadly. “Yeah, I mean, I don’t understand people like them. I know plenty of people with money, real money and they wouldn’t kill their own children to keep it.”

I nod. “It’s too easy just anyone to have kids. If your body cooperates, then you’re in luck. Children are defenseless. They don’t ask to be born. And, it’s wrong that your chances of survival hinge on whether or not you’re born to scumbags or not. Shouldn’t we, as a society do more to protect kids?”

“I came to your wedding,” he says and I blink at the sharp turn in our conversation.

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