Page 12 of Rake

I can’t tell if that last part is a joke or not.

“It’s better to leave it on until I can get some medical help.” My voice is small. “It’ll keep the swelling down.”

He drapes one of his big, elegant hands on my boot. “That’s not going to happen tonight. I can’t let you leave until we’ve figured this out.”

He sounds annoyed. Like he can’t believe I haven’t just accepted my fate. I won’t give him permission, but I don’t bother protesting as he unties the laces and eases my boot off. I suck in a breath at the sharp intrusion of pain.

My socks are purple with pink bunnies on them. They’d been a gift from my late Grandma Goldie. Watching him peel that embarrassing sock off my foot nearly breaks me.

Suddenly, I’m glad I shaved my legs even though it’s winter. What a stupid thing to think right now. Annoyance surges through me at the thought, so out of place in this dangerous situation.

He probes my injury with gentle fingers. My foot is ghostly white, with the starburst of a bruise beginning to swell around my ankle bone.

“It doesn’t seem broken, but it’s a bad sprain.” He flicks his dark eyes at me. “Old injury?”

“Not so old.”

Turns out having your ankle tied at an angle to a fence for hours is bad for it.

He blinks slowly as he processes what I’ve said. He shifts uncomfortably, though whether from the knowledge of how I was hurt or from being on the floor, who knows.

“Ah. I see. Well, I’ve always been pretty lanky and I twisted my ankles a lot as a kid. I can wrap this up for you.”

“Lanky is not the word I’d use to describe you.”

He lets out a husky laugh, his fingers lightly tracing my ankle. It sparks a bizarre longing deep inside me. What is wrong with me?

It’s not fair for God to make a ridiculously attractive man like this and make him a Carney. Not that devastatingly attractive men are ever interested in me. Not even mediocre ones like Gary are. But still.

He’s taking my other boot off now, and I don’t fight him. He closes a warm hand around my frozen foot.

“Let’s get you into something dry, and I’ll make dinner while we think about next steps.”

I’m trapped and I hate it.

But if James Carney doesn’t know he’s going to be served on Monday, and this is just a reaction to more whispers about union activity, I’m not any safer at home. This way at least my little brother won’t be in harm’s way.

Another lesson life has taught me lately: I don’t have to like this to accept it.

“Fine,” I say, trying to push to my feet.

He takes me by the elbows. I can feel the sinew of the muscles of his forearms through the material of his shirt. He’s not bulky, but he’s big. And given how easily he lifts me, he’s strong. I try to put weight on my left foot and stumble against him.

“Careful,” he says, holding my arms still.

He shifts so he’s next to me and slides an arm around my waist. He smells like the oaky embers of a fire that’s just gone out. Still warm, nearly intoxicating. Or maybe that’s just the adrenaline draining from me. His mouth is next to my ear. “Slowly now.”

I don’t need to know what Finn Carney’s bedroom voice sounds like. Why is this happening?

He helps me into said bedroom and unzips my puffer coat, guiding me to sit on the edge of his king-size bed. I suppose I should be nervous, sitting in this intimate space. But I’m sure I’m not the kind of woman Finn usually has on his bed. I’m sure I don’t even register as a woman to him. My fingers trace over the silky, expensive damask bedspread as he places my jacket in the en suite bathroom.

“That was one deceptive coat. I’m not going to have much that’s small enough for you to wear.” He drags his gaze over me slowly, and I’m suddenly too embarrassed to meet his eyes. Finn stands there for just a minute, but then walks over to a tall chest of drawers.

It’s an incredible piece of furniture—mahogany maybe? It stands on four legs, the feet carved to look like lion’s paws. It’s a masculine but elegant piece, and I bet it has a secret compartment. My many viewings ofAntiques Roadshowreruns tell me it’s American Empire style—old and expensive as fuck.

He pulls out a long-sleeved shirt and hands it to me. It’s dark blue and very soft.

“I got that at a charity run I did,” he says. “Don’t worry, I didn’t run in it. It’s way too small for me, but I kept it to remember the event.”

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