Page 9 of Protect Me
Sweet baby pineapple.
Vikram.
Vikram.
Vikram.
Everything I’d once admired about him as a young, lovestruck girl had only intensified with time. The rugged beauty. The occasional jaded malevolence. Vikram didn’t just walk into a room, heownedthe room—and the people in it.
On his own, with a nasty scar and a brooding temperament—riddled with flashes of charm—and he still had my heart. My soul. He gripped them in his fingers, tangling my heartstrings as he tugged them along.
The man stilllooked like an Indian god come to life with his dark eyes and swept-back hair. Bedraggled, he still managed to look sexy. I pressed my hand to my forehead and let out a long breath.
“Get it together, Kate,” I hissed. “You survived aunt Trina, you can survive this. Get him settled, make him dinner, and get out of here. Rule number one. Never alone.”
A scoff rolled out of me.
No, I had no fear over Vikram.
He was weak as a kitten, though he tried to hide it. He couldn’t hurt me if he tried. Not physically, and I’d never give any man a reason for power over me inanyform. The reality of his situation, and my deep loyalty to Vinita, brought my resolve to be helpful back. A new plan formed.
Once Vikram returned from his shower, I’d help him get settled. I’d cobble together a grocery list, prep a few meals, and promise to check on him in a day or two. He seemed lucid enough now.
Space and time.
If we have nothing else,Vinita always reminded me when she slipped into therapist mode,our hearts heal with space and time.
My heart didn’t need to heal.
It needed to find all the lost pieces first.
Vikram stumbled out of the bathroom half an hour later. Only when I saw his pale face and drawn expression did I feel a stab of fear.
Should I have helped him?
Recovery from getting sliced open was hardly my forte. When possible, I avoided blood, gore, and anything associated with pain. Hospitals sent a deathly shiver through me.
“You don’t look so good,” I said, already at his side.
He smiled grimly, knuckles white on his crutches. The muscles of his forearms flexed, too defined by half. There was no reason to be this perfect.
“Peachy,” he muttered.
Okay, right.
I deserved that.
“Can I help you back to the couch?”
His nostrils flared. “Sure.”
I followed at his side, annoyed by the regret that he’d donned an old shirt. A second pair of chopped sweatpants, these black, covered his legs.
While he showered, I’d cleaned up the couch, removed the dirty blankets and pillows, replaced them with new ones, and put more clothes in the laundry. The coffee table had been littered with pill bottles, glasses of water, and boxes of half-eaten food. I’d cleared it off and then filled water bottles to stash in the fridge.
As we approached, his gaze roved over the clean area with glazed surprise. He paused at the coffee table, then glanced to the right, near the kitchen.
“Mind if we detour? I’m so sick of this view.”
