Page 86 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
I hold her through it, and when she goes weak against me, I kiss her temple. “That was just for you,” I murmur. “Don’t worry about me.”
“But you’re still hard?—”
I smirk. “Yeah, you have that effect on men.”
She blushes. Fuck, how can she blush after that? “I want to make you feel good.”
“You have the kids’ breakfast to make, don’t you?”
She lifts her head, blinking down at me like she wants to argue. She sighs and presses a quick kiss to my mouth and whispers, “I’ll be back,” before slipping off the bed.
I let her go, watch the sway of her body as she pulls her shirt back on, then the quick patter of her bare feet down the hall. I roll onto my side and tug my arm closer to check it. The bandage is dark, wet. Damn it. Thank fuck she didn’t turn on the lights. I peel it back fast and hiss. Fresh blood, sluggish but steady, the cut reopened.
“Should’ve gotten stitches,” I mutter on my way to the bathroom, my own voice harsh in the quiet. I press a towel over it, breathing through the sting. “Too late now.”
The wound isn’t killing me, but it’s not healing right either. That’s the problem with some things—they linger. They don’t close when they’re supposed to. They fester, stay open, remind you of what you’ve let slide.
Like David.
I dig through the drawer until I find the roll of bandages Wesley shoved at me yesterday. He gave me that look when he did it, the one that says he knows damn well I’m not doing this right but he’s too tired to fight me.
The gash is ugly. Jagged. Every time I flex, it pulls open a little more. I pour alcohol over it and grit my teeth, the sting burning up my arm and down into my chest. I’ve been hurt worse. That’s the excuse I keep repeating. The truth is, worse doesn’t matter.
I wind the new bandage tight, tighter than it probably needs to be, watching the white turn pink, then red, then back to white again as I overlap. My fingers work on autopilot. I’ve wrapped too many wounds in my life to need to think about it. By the time I pin the edge down, I’m sweating harder than I want to admit.
I keep hearing David’s voice in my head. Smooth. Smug. Talking about Eli “falling.” I see Eli’s cast every time I close my eyes. I see Maeve’s face when she whispered to Wes about David and her period. They didn’t know I was watching, listening. No one suspects a big guy of being stealthy. I see Bailey, trying so damn hard to be strong in front of her kids when she’s breaking inside.
The thing about rot is, it spreads. If you don’t cut it out, it takes everything else down with it.
I flex my hand, blood prickling under the fresh wrap, and let myself picture it. David on the ground. My hand at his throat.The smugness gone from his eyes for once. Just fear, clean and sharp, the way he’s made everyone else feel.
The thought settles into me like a stone in a still pond.
By the time I make it to the kitchen, the house smells like toast and eggs. Bailey’s at the stove, hair twisted up, moving too fast for this early. Maeve sets plates on the table, her braid swinging. Eli sits quiet, his cast awkward against the edge of the counter.
Bailey glances at me, and her face softens just for a second before she turns back to the pan. I give her a small nod. She doesn’t need to know how much my arm is throbbing. She doesn’t need more to worry about.
I grab a mug and pour coffee. The heat steadies me, bitter and sharp on my tongue. I’m fine, I tell myself. Always fine. The pain is background noise, same as it’s always been. I drink the rest of my coffee, but my eyes keep drifting to the gate camera feed on my phone. I know the schedule too well. David will be here soon.
The guard outside radios in when the sedan turns onto the drive. Sean straightens immediately, jaw set, his hand resting on the back of Bailey’s chair like a warning to anyone who’d think about pulling her away. Wesley steps closer to the kids, smiling like it’s casual, but his eyes are sharp as glass.
I move to the door before the bell even chimes. Habit. Instinct. The bastard doesn’t get to stand here a second longer than necessary.
The SUV stops in the drive, smooth and shiny, the kind of car you buy to show people you’re winning. David climbs out like he’s stepping onto a stage, sunglasses on, smile already in place.
I imagine it with fewer teeth.
The back doors open. Maeve and Eli shuffle forward, shoulders tight, their eyes flicking between their parents. Bailey kneels, smoothing Eli’s hair, kissing Maeve’s cheek, her hands lingering like she’s trying to memorize them in case this is the last time. My chest tightens at the sight, at the quiet desperation in her face.
David stands back, pretending patience. He adjusts his cuff links, checks his watch, glances at the house like he’s mocking it. When his eyes land on me, he smirks. “Expecting trouble?”
I don’t answer. Sean steps in instead. “Preventing it.”
David tsks, tilting his head. “Always so dramatic.”
My hands flex at my sides, itching to ball into fists. It would be so easy to end him right here, to wipe that smug expression off his face.
Not in front of the kids.
