Page 48 of Avenging Jessie
Jessie
The apartment wassilent when they slipped inside. It should have been comforting, but the contrast made Jessie’s skin itch. It was too quiet, too normal after the chaos they’d just left behind.
Her boots felt heavy on the warped wood floor. Her ankle was tweaking again, too. Spence’s footsteps were quieter, but every movement was tight. He kept his injured wrist tucked close to his body, and there was a grim set to his mouth.
She shut the door and slid the bolt home, eyes still on him. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t say a damn word. Just crossed to the small table to set down his laptop and open it. The glow from the screen threw sharp lines across his face as he dropped into the chair.
The knot in her chest tightened.
It was worse than if he would yell. If he’d tear into her for ditching the plan, she could push back, fight him on it. But this? This cold, quiet distance? It was a wall, and she hated it.
Her fingers twitched at her sides. She wanted to fill the silence, but what would she say?Sorry, I almost got you killed? Sorry, your wrist looks like a balloon because of me?
Instead, she stood there, taking in the sight of him working one-handed, and awkwardly at that, jaw tight as he navigated the keyboard with his left. Every slow, methodical click of the keys sounded too loud in the cramped room.
Her guilt clawed higher.
“We need to wrap your wrist and get ice on it,” she said finally, her voice rougher than she meant. “Your hand isn’t going to fix itself.”
He didn’t look up. “It’ll hold.”
She stepped into his space and grabbed his left arm, tugging him to his feet. “Yeah, until you try to use it and it gets worse. Couch. Now.”
That earned her a flick of his eyes, which were guarded and unreadable, before he pushed back from the desk with a sigh and stood.
She told herself it wasn’t victory she felt. It was just relief that he’d listened.
She guided him to the couch, the springs squeaking under his weight. His jacket came off with a rough shrug, and she caught the faint hiss of pain he didn’t quite swallow.
“Shirt off,” she said.
One brow arched. “That’s a bold opener, even for you.”
She rolled her eyes, but heat crept up the back of her neck. “The cuff of your shirt is too tight to push up, and we need to remove it now before your wrist swells too much to get it off entirely. We’ll find you something looser.”
His smirk was faint, but it lingered as he peeled the long-sleeved black shirt over his head, needing her help to ease the cuff off of his swollen hand. It left him bare from the waist up. The sight punched the air right out of her lungs. Broad chest, lean muscle, the kind of strength that didn’t come from a gym but from years of using his body as a weapon.
She made herself focus on the hand, all mottled with bruising, the wrist stiff and unyielding. “Hastings did a number on it,” she murmured, crouching in front of him.
The small first aid kit was on the coffee table. She dug out an instant cold pack, smacking it until it went rigid with ice. Bending down in front of him, she pressed it gently to his wrist, where it rested on his knee.
His sharp inhale brushed the top of her head.
“Sorry,” she said automatically.
“Don’t be. Just…finish what you started.”
It wasn’t about the wrist anymore, not with the way his voice dropped, low and rough, curling around her spine.
Her pulse jumped. She adjusted the pack, gently wrapping it in an elastic bandage to hold it in place, her fingers brushing his skin with every pass. Warmth radiated from him, seeping into her palms, her chest.
When she glanced up, his gaze was locked on her. Not guarded anymore. Not even angry. Just…watching.
It was enough to make her fumble the bandage, her fingertips skating over the rugged ridge of muscle in his forearm before she caught herself.
She cleared her throat. “You need some pain meds?”
“There’s nothing in the kit that’s strong enough.”
