Page 33 of Reckless: Chaos

“Ryker would be so proud.”

“Fuck Ryker.” But there’s no heat in it. His hands linger at my shoulders, thumbs brushing soft circles that make me want to lean into him like a cat. “How’s the pain?”

“Present.” I test my range of motion and immediately regret it. “Very present.”

“You need a shower.” He says it like he’s been working up to it, the words coming out in a rush. “Before your next round of meds. It’ll help with the muscle stiffness.”

I blink at him, trying to process this new, nurturing version of my chaos alpha. “Are you offering to help?”

“Unless you’d prefer one of the others.” His jaw tightens, eyes darkening. “Theo’s probably better at this shit.”

“Hey.” I catch his hand before he can retreat, ignoring the way my shoulder protests. “I want you.”

The words hang between us, heavier than I meant them to be. More honest.

His fingers tangle with mine, grip careful but sure. When he speaks, his voice is rough. “You say shit like that while you’re hurt, Glitch. Makes a man want to break things.”

“Good thing I like you a little broken.” The drugs might be wearing off, but apparently my filter is still gloriously absent.

“Not that broken,” he growls, but his hands remain gentle as he helps me swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Not with you.”

The room tilts uncomfortably as I get vertical. Jinx steadies me with a hand on my good shoulder, and I catch a glimpse of the raw edges of his hoodie collar, worse than before.

“You’ve been stressed.” I reach up to touch the mangled fabric, but he catches my wrist.

“Don’t.” His voice carries a warning, but his thumb strokes over my pulse point. “Not about me right now. Someone decided to play hero and get herself shot.”

“That someone would like a shower.” Deflection has always been my best defense. “Since you offered so nicely.”

He makes a sound caught between a laugh and a snarl. “Nothing nice about it, Glitch. You smell like hospital.”

The possessive edge in his tone sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with pain or medication. His eyes track the movement, pupils dilating.

“Jinx...”

“Don’t.” He closes his eyes, throat working. “You’re hurt. I’m trying really fucking hard to be good right now.”

“Since when are you good?”

“Since you took a bullet and scared the shit out of me.” The words explode out of him, raw and real. His grip tightens fractionally before deliberately loosening. “Since I spent six hours pacing while they dug it out of you. Since I had to watch them wheel you into surgery while reeking of blood and gunpowder.”

Oh.

Oh.

“I may have clocked an orderly,” he admits, reading my expression. “Or two. Ryker had to drag me out before security got involved.”

“Only two? You’re slipping.”

“Don’t.” The word comes out guttural. “Don’t make jokes. Not about this.” His hands frame my face, surprisingly steady despite the tremor I can feel running through him. “Do you have any idea what it was like? Smelling your blood? Watching you go down?”

The raw edge in his voice cuts through my defenses like they’re nothing. He’s not touching the bandage, but I swear I can feel the heat of his palm hovering over it, a phantom pressure that makes my breath catch.

“I’m okay,” I whisper.

“You’re not fucking okay. You got shot. Taking a bullet meant for—” He breaks off, that manic energy coiling tighter. “Shower. You need a shower. Then food. Then meds. One thing at a time or I’m gonna lose my shit.”

“Pretty sure that ship’s sailed, sunshine.”

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