Page 54 of His to Protect

Chapter 12

Trina

The wind in Chicago was brutal. Between my hair whipping across my cheeks and the throng of people on the platform when we stepped off the train, I was unsure of my footing, and felt jostled by the hectic pace of a city that felt much too large, much too active.

A firm hand cupped my elbow, and I flinched for just a brief moment before I realized it was only Declan, guiding me closer to him.

“Thank you,” I said and leaned toward his large frame for support. I wasn’t typically a claustrophobic type of person, but in the last few years, for good reason, unexpected touches from random strangers made me uncomfortable.

“Stay close,” he said.

His eyes focused straight ahead as he hustled us closer to the stairs, weaving us in and out of the other travelers with practiced precision. From what I knew, Declan had always lived in Detroit, only leaving for a few years to play football at Central University, where he met Tyson and Aidan. He seemed so comfortable in Chicago, knew so many specific places to go, that I couldn’t help but wonder how often he’d been here.

He was certainly not an occasional visitor.

I opened my mouth to ask him as we began heading down the stairway, when I felt a sharp jab in the side of my stomach. I jumped from the sudden contact and the sting of pain. I lurched forward, wrapping my arm around my waist and pulling my arm out of Declan’s grasp.

The quick movement made me lose by balance and the toe of my shoe caught on a bump on the metal stairs. Before I knew what was happening, I fell forward and reached out to brace myself against the stranger in front of me, when someone else bumped into my side and I tripped again.

A piercing ache slashed through my ankle as it twisted in the space between the stairs, and right before I face-planted on the metal railway, strong hands wrapped around my waist.

“Shit!” Declan cursed as he began lifting me back to my feet.

“Ouch.” I cringed as my foot twisted again and slid out of the gap.

Curling my hands around the metal railing, I pulled myself upright. Declan’s hands on my waist created a cascade of warmth that tumbled through my body, everywhere, except for where there was a fiery pain, beginning in my ankle and traveling up to my knee. “It hurts really bad.”

Tears welled in my eyes from the harsh pain, and I squeezed my eyes closed.

I had learned not to cry. It didn’t help anything.

“Are you okay?” Declan asked.

I hissed a breath between my teeth and pressed my lips together. Around us, people continued their journey to wherever they were going, not bothering to give either of us a second look. Declan was jostled from the back and the side as he stood in a way that protected me from the crowd.

I overheard a few murmurs of displeasure tossed in Declan’s direction for blocking the already narrow staircase. With the way he was looking at me, deep, dark eyes narrowed with concern, I doubted he heard them.

“What hurts?” he asked and his eyes roamed over my body. That look soaked into my pores like the richest lotion, soothing and softening me.

It shouldn’t be right, how good he made me feel. Yet there was no escaping it, either. Every look, every brush of his fingers against mine, every touch of his skin on mine created a craving inside me, made me want more.

“My ankle,” I said, shaking my head and trying to focus. I set the toes of my injured foot on the stair to apply pressure, but it made me yelp in pain.

“We need to get you looked at.”

He glanced down at my foot and quickly back up when I snapped, “No. No doctors. No hospitals. There’ll be records.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, and ran a hand from his forehead to the back of his neck, squeezing. I watched as muscles bunched at the sides of his throat before he ran his tongue along the front of his teeth.

“Not a problem. I’ve got an idea. It’ll just mean we miss the train to Milwaukee.”

Before I could argue that it wasn’t a good idea, that I’d be fine—I could just ice it on the train—he pushed people out of his way and scooped me into his arms. One of his hands went under my knees, the other behind my back.

“I look ridiculous,” I said, not surprised at all that he carried me with ease. He was well over six feet tall, and even with my smaller frame in his arms, his muscles showed barely any strain from the effort. “I’ll be fine. Really.”

I knew what a severe injury felt like. I’d had enough of them.

“You’re not,” he insisted as I cringed when I was jostled in his arms. “But you will be.”

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