Page 60 of Playing the Pucking Game
One second, I’m standing there, apparently bleeding all over the carpet, and the next, my feet are leaving the floor and I’m being carried into the bathroom.
“Linc, get the hell off me.” I wriggle and kick, but he’s too strong.
Twisting me in his hold, he sits me on the counter before dropping to his knees before me. The sight makes my head spin, but all of that confusion is forgotten when my eyes lock on my foot.
“Oh fuck,” I gasp, watching as blood drips to the floor. He wasn’t joking; it really is bleeding.
I watch, enthralled, as he takes my foot in his hands and carefully inspects it.
“I think you might have some glass in it,” he explains.
“I didn’t walk far. It’s probably just a—” His determined eyes find mine, and my words die on my lips.
“I’m going to call for a first-aid kit. If I can’t get it out, then?—”
“Just get it out. I’m not going to the ER.”
He quirks one brow but chooses not to argue. I fear that if he can’t get the glass out, I might not have a leg to stand on, figuratively and metaphorically.
“Don’t move,” he demands before pushing to his feet and marching from the room.
“Where the fuck am I going to go?” I mutter to myself before his voice fills the hotel room as he demands to have a first-aid kit brought up immediately.
“Don’t you think this is all a bit overdramatic?” I ask when he returns. His eyes drop to the puddle I’ve no doubt made on the floor before running up the length of my bare leg, and all the way to my face.
My blood turns to lava at the possessive and protective look in his eyes, and it takes everything in me not to squirm on the counter.
It’s Lincoln Storm. We don’t want him, I silently remind my body.
It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. He isn’t the one to end our dry spell.
“No, Donnelly. I don’t think I’m being overdramatic. I’m also not leaving until this is patched up, so don’t even try it.”
I tilt my head to the side in an attempt to look innocent, because the thought of demanding he leave so that I can deal with this alone never crossed my mind…
“You want to tell me off, don’t you?” I ask, hating that judgmental look in his eyes.
He remains silent.
“Go on, say what you’ve got to say.”
He shakes his head, as if he needs to clear his thoughts.
“I’m not going to tell you off,” he states.
“But,” I urge.
“But…I fucking hate that you’ve been out and got hurt.” The second the words are out, he slams his lips shut.
My fuzzy brain works overtime, trying to decipher what he means, as he holds a tissue against my foot to catch the blood.
“Because I’m Rett’s little sister?” I ask quietly.
Linc being protective isn’t new. He and Rett used to be overbearing nightmares when I was growing up. Things have been different in the last few years, and I’m not sure how I feel going back to having him watch over my every move.
He clears his throat. “Yeah. It’s my job to make sure you're safe, especially now that he’s out of town.”
“Hmm.”
