Page 37 of Vow to Protect
Contusions litter his magnificent torso, deep and bruised with colourful shades of violence. This time, I study the sleeve of tattoos inked from wrist to armpit, with birds in flight soaring across his muscular stomach. A hand rakes through damp hair, and the cut above his eyebrow leaks in protest of an attack.
“Will you tell me what happened?” My palm instinctively floats over my scar. “Was this because you helped me?”
Brett grunts. “I was training.”
“Training?” I repeat, folding my arms and cocking a brow.
“Training,” he confirms, glancing down to the phone in his hand.
“Training for what exactly?”
“Sport,” he replies abruptly before tapping the screen and bringing the phone to his ear. “I won’t be home tonight.” He talks into the phone, stormy eyes sweeping my bare legs. As his gaze dawdles, my pulse skids. “Can you get her to phone me the second she wakes up?” Brett slowly turns away from me, breaking his assessment. A narrow waist and sculpted back erupt with strength to sturdy shoulders. Tiny pin pricks sprinkle my scalp, the sensation of need outweighs everything else. “No, I’m not drunk.” His voice strains. “I’m downstairs.”Downstairs? I had no idea he lived in this building. “Yes. Everything is fine,” he continues. “Goodnight—and, Gretchen, thank you. It’s not what you think. Not this time, sweetheart.”
A flash of vicious jealousy snarls in my chest.Gretchen. Sweetheart. Is she someone he adores? He mentioned that name before, when he talked about ordering birthday cake.
He tosses the phone onto the armchair, bracing himself as he walks. “I’ll take the couch.” As he nears the door, hands fly to his temples, and he stops dead. “Fuck!” he murmurs, staggering with bent knees.
I resist the impulse to press my palms to his decorated skin. “Sit down before you hit the floor.” He lunges towards the mattress and bends over, fisting the sheet as his world rotates faster than his mind can tolerate. “Lie down until it passes.”
“I’m fine,” he bites back. “It's only the pills kicking in.”
His eyes scrunch closed, and his sharp panting becomes steady and regulated. The more he pretends to be okay, the more he tips forward until he clambers fully on the bed and rolls onto his back. “The fucker hooked my temple,” he says lazily, like sleep is luring him with pillows and warmth. “I had him—I almost had him.”
“You could have a concussion.”
“I necked a few sleeping pills,” he murmurs. “The guy didn’t hit me hard enough.” The crook of his arm slings over his eyes, and his lungs lift before he exhales deeply.
A throbbing pulse settles from pumping to peaceful. I check out his mighty frame sprawled on the bed, exposed and unguarded. His torso, although wounded, is chiselled and defined with self-discipline and hard work. I count the visible bruises, battered and bloodied knuckles, and inspect the swollen gash above his eyebrow.
I’m almost certain he’s asleep when his arm slides free of his face and a soft exhale whispers past his nostrils. He’s stubborn and shuttered, but not beyond repair. Setting the gauze and cleaning solution out, I lightly join him on the bed. I take this rare moment to capture his heroic form to memory, so one day I can immortalise him in watercolour and keep this memory for myself.
The gauze absorbs astringent liquid. I ever so carefully dab the oozing cut. Ebony lashes blink, and his head instinctively nods away from the sting. I swap out the sodden gauze for a fresh clump and sweep over his cheek. A scurry of moth’s flutter and flit within me. Death has a way of tarnishing colourful butterflies and leaving grey creatures in its wake. I’ve seen my share of brutality and blood. This isn’t what I wanted for him, for either of us.
My shoulders tense as I work with trembling hands. Within a split second of securing a strip of tape to his brow, a large hand clamps my wrist.
“What are you doing?” he says thickly.
“You were bleeding. I’ve patched it up. That’s all,” I whisper. The skin beneath his fingers catches fire and a flash of heat spreads up my arm so my heartbeat thumps harder.
Eyelids drift open, and the whites of his eyes frame glossy black pupils, wary and liquified. Our gaze fuses. He slowly moistens his lips, either contemplating punishment or preparing for pleasure. “Are you done?” his deep timbre rumbles. A jolt of maddening chemistry stiffens my nipples.
I shake my head, wiggling my trapped hand held close to his face. “No. It won't take long to fix you up.”
“You can’t fix me.” His jaw works as his teeth clench. The gentle grip restricts like he’s losing control.
In most circumstances my instincts would tell me to run far, far away. Instead, my needy body reacts to his dominance. Tingles tease my nape, evoking a shiver. His gaze cuts to my bare thighs and trails over my body, and then in a beat, his attention turns inward. The unspoken distance chills my hot skin.
“Little girls get scared if they see their daddy hurt like this.” Biting my lower lip, my free hand floats to his chest in a game of dare. It’s a risky way to remind him of pleasure and intimacy. Fingertips boldly dance over his taut pectoral. His eyes flare, so deep and intense, as if he’s hunting for my soul. He lies there frozen, tiny bumps showering his flesh. “I’ll rub in some ointment and then leave you alone to sleep.” The tips of my nails skate lower to where his ribs concave.
His chest rises and lowers in reluctant defeat, and his fingers unlatch. Without seeking a verbal response, I reach over to the nightstand and grab the unscented arnica salve. I unscrew the lid and scoop out a glob, rubbing it between my palms so it warms to a glossy sheen. My gaze flicks from my hands to his face, waiting for permission to continue. His eyes close briefly, and his body stays stiff.
The creamy balm glides as a permeable protective barrier between my skin and his. With gentle sweeps, I massage and stroke, paying careful attention to his aching ribs as the lotion absorbs. I peek through the hair hanging over my face to find the towel raised at his groin. My pulse flows like lava flowing downhill, suffocating the land beneath it.He’s enjoying this. He feels this obsessive compulsion too—doesn’t he?
I don't stop, nudging a little closer so my tentative caress covers the breadth of his torso. The tightness in his muscles simmer. His fingers curl around the sheets when the pads of my fingers skim his hard nipples.
I offer him affection, and he accepts. I become aware of my own womanly virtues, adoring how the slight pressure conjures a visible reaction in him like I’m a secret lover. Someone special. My obscure infatuation with Brett De Courcy has given me wings, gifted me with flight, and captured the wind. I’m flying high. The coupling of skin to skin makes me feel alive. I’m no longer tending to his injuries; I’m indulging in the overwhelming attraction exploding under the surface.
“Raen,” he says my name in a sultry breath. “Come here.” A hand secures my neck, linking with my hair. He jerks me lower, guiding my face down to his.
