Page 84 of Unbroken

Those hands could crush bone. They probablyhave.

But not mine.

I hiss when the pressure hits the worst of the swelling.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I don’t respond, and he blows out a breath. His jaw ticks.

“Didn’t say you could walk on it,” he mutters, like my pain offends him. Like my defiance is personal. “You should’ve rested. If you’d stayed, I would’ve told you that.” His voice is low, taut with restraint. “Should’ve kept off it. Elevated it.”

“It’s my ankle,” I murmur. “Not a bullet wound.”

He doesn’t answer. Just sinks down, slow and deliberate, until his mouth hovers over the bruised skin.

Then—

A kiss. Barely there. A flicker of heat over the ache. Reverent. Possessive. Like he’s marking it.

I freeze. “You’re crossing a line.”

He lifts his gaze. Cold fire. Shadowed hunger.

“No,” he says. “You’re not afraid enough.”

He taps pills into my palm—careful and exact.

“Take them,” he says.

I do what he says and don’t protest. I’m tired, and there’s no need to. It’s time for me to trust him, to know that he’ll take care of me.

I’m starting to get used to this.

There’s a quiet buzz from his phone. He checks it, then silences it immediately. I glance over. Alarm icon.

“What was that?”

“Reminder to time your pain meds. I don’t want you to get behind on these.”

I blink. “You’re tracking when I take my meds?”

He shrugs. I look away, unexpectedly emotional, and swallow hard.

The meds kick in fast—heat blooming under my skin, safety masquerading as surrender. I feel the edges soften, the ache dim. Everything blurs at the corners.

But I don’t stop watching him.

Even as my body melts into the couch.

Even as my eyes begin to close.

Because his eyes haven’t left me once.

And whatever’s happening between us—it’s not mercy.

It’s a storm waiting to claim me.

I remember the weight of his arms around me, the way he lowered me into soft sheets like I’m something breakable. It’s all so comforting, so familiar.

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