Page 56 of Brick's Retribution

Either way, he slumps against the tunnel wall while I assess his injuries.

The shoulder wound is clean—through and through, missing the major arteries.

But the bullet that reopened his ribs has torn the previous stitches and created a much larger wound.

Blood flows freely, soaking his shirt and pooling on the tunnel floor.

"Medical kit," I say, already reaching for his bag. "I need to stop this bleeding before you go into shock."

My hands shake slightly as I prepare the supplies, but my training takes over.

"This is going to hurt," I warn, cleaning the wound with antiseptic.

He grits his teeth but doesn't make a sound as I work.

The tunnel around us echoes with distant shouts and gunfire as our pursuers search for our escape route, but my entire world has narrowed to the man bleeding in my hands.

"Why?" I ask as I suture the worst of the damage. "Why did you do that? You could have been killed."

"Couldn't let them hurt you," he says simply, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

The casual way he says it—like my life is worth more than his own—does something to my chest, makes it tight with emotions.

My hands are steady even though his words went straight to my heart. "You barely know me."

"I know enough." His amber eyes find mine in the dim light filtering through the tunnel entrance. "I know you're brave and smart and stronger than you realize. I know you taste like sin and salvation all at once. And I know I'd rather die than see you hurt."

The honesty in his voice, the raw emotion beneath him, breaks something loose inside me.

This man—this beautiful, dangerous, impossibly loyal man—nearly died protecting me.

And not because it's his job, but because Imatterto him.

"Brick," I breathe, my hands stilling on his bandages.

"Finish fixing me up first," he says with a weak smile. "Then we can talk about whatever's happening between us."

I finish his medical treatment in silence, hyper-aware of every place our skin touches, every breath he takes, every flutter of his pulse under my fingers.

By the time I finish, the immediate bleeding has stopped, but he's still pale from blood loss.

I secure the last bandage. "Better?"

"Much," he replies, though I can see the pain he's hiding. "Thanks, doc."

The simple endearment shouldn't affect me as much as it does, but something about the way he says it—with such warmth and trust—makes my heart race.

We're sitting close together in the narrow tunnel, his blood on my hands, the sound of our pursuers growing distant.

The adrenaline from the fight is fading, replaced by something else entirely.

"Imani," he says softly, his good hand coming up to cup my face.

I lean into his touch, closing my eyes at the gentle contact.

When I open them again, I see everything I've been trying to deny reflected in his gaze—desire, tenderness, possession.

"This changes things," I whisper.

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