Page 75 of Risky Passion

I reached for the top button, but my dislocated finger flared with sharp pain each time I tried to grip the fabric. Hissing through my teeth, I paused, frustration prickling at the corners of my eyes.

“Let me,” he said softly.

Before I could protest, Jaxson stepped in and gently nudged my hands away. I froze as he undid the buttons. And my god, my stupid brain had to remind itself he wasn’t undressing me, though technically, he absolutely was.

As each button slipped free, I watched his hands, stunned by how careful he was.

How patient.

And my foolish heart gave a traitorous flutter.

I swallowed hard. “Thanks,” I whispered, barely trusting my voice.

He offered a quiet nod, meeting my gaze long enough to make my breath catch before he looked away.

I eased the shirt aside, but as I tried to slip my wounded arm free, pain pierced through the grazed skin. “Shit!” I yelped.

“Here, let me.” Immediately, his hand was there again, steadying me.

After everything I’d been through, his tenderness felt like the only thing keeping me together right now.

Jaxson cupped my wrist lightly as if he was afraid of hurting me, and gently guided my arm free of the sleeve. When the fabric slipped from my skin, he turned my elbow to get a better look at the wound.

“Jesus, Tory,” he breathed, eyes fixed on the angry, bloodied graze. “You were shot.”

I nodded. “Eddie got me.”

“Fucking hell,” he growled. “Why didn’t you say something?”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool, even though I was anything but. “We were a little busy trying not to get killed.”

Jaxson’s eyes locked on mine, and the usual hardness in his expression was gone. In its place was something raw. Something I wouldn’t have expected from a man like him, a kind of tenderness that nearly undid me.

“You should’ve said something.” He shook his head, but I had the impression he was scolding himself more than me.

“I’m fine,” I mumbled, though the words felt hollow. I could hardly believe I had a bullet wound. Even now, it didn’t feel real. I’d spent the last twenty minutes convincing myself it wasn’t bad. If it were serious, surely I would be sobbing in agony or completely incapacitated. Yet the blood soaking my shirt and streaking down my arm confirmed it was bad enough.

“Fine, my ass.” Jaxson shook his head as he opened the first-aid kit on the trunk. He unscrewed the lid of a bottle of antiseptic and poured some onto a piece of gauze. “This is going to sting.”

“I can handle it,” I said, bracing myself.

“Yeah, I know you can.” Clenching his jaw tight, he gently dabbed at the edge of the wound.

The antiseptic burned like hell, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

He paused, rubbing his hand over my other arm. “You okay?”

“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth. “Get it over with.”

He nodded, and with his focus intense, he cleaned away the blood still oozing from the wound and dribbling down my arm. The bullet had just grazed my skin, taking a small chunk of flesh with it. I’d rescued plenty of people with far worse injuries. This was nothing.

I couldn’t help but watch him, rather than what he was doing. This tough, brave man, who’d just driven like a maniac, was treating my wound with a tenderness that felt completely at odds with everything I thought I knew about him.

He kept trying to hide behind his grit and bravado, but his façade was slipping, and when it did, the real Jaxson was there. But he seemed afraid to show his kindness, and I had a feeling something truly rotten had happened to him. The thought cracked something open in me.

“You got lucky,” he said, gently squeezing my good arm. “Another inch, and that bullet would have done some real damage.”

“Yeah. Can’t wait to show my friends that I got shot,” I said dryly.

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