Page 56 of The Soldier's Scoundrel
“Well, stop, Jack. Stop. I was serious about buying a house somewhere. Come with me.” He was wrapping the cravat around Jack’s arm.
“No.” Jack winced, more at the waste of an expensive cravat than at the pain.
Oliver knotted the makeshift bandage. “You cannot possibly prefer being shot at to being with me.” His voice was withering. Scornful.
Jack remained silent.
“Oh, I see.” Oliver brought over the washbasin and ewer and began to wash the blood off the uninjured parts of Jack’s chest and arm. “You actually do prefer being shot. More fool me.” There was more venom in Oliver’s voice than Jack had thought possible.
“Oliver.” He reached out again.
“Don’t,” Oliver said softly. But this time he didn’t move away.
“I wasn’t the target tonight.”
“Pardon?” He glanced at Jack with the same confused expression that had seemed adorable less than an hour ago but now was heartbreaking.
“The shooter was aiming for you.”
Oliver reared back and stared at Jack. After a moment he let out a puff of breath and raked his hands through his hair. He’d probably find blood there in the morning, Jack thought.
“You heard the pistol being cocked, you knew the shooter was aiming for me, and you threw yourself on top of me. You literally took a bullet for me.”
That was about the size of it. “You make it seem more valiant than it was.” He would take a dozen more bullets, along with some knives and cudgels, if that’s what it took to keep Oliver safe. “I just didn’t want you to get hurt.” He rested his head against the back of the chair in order to look up at Oliver.
“Like I said, you took a bullet for me.” Oliver took a deep, shaky breath. “Listen to me, Jack. I don’t want you to be shot, and I especially don’t want you to be shot for me.”
“Well, it’s not your choice, is it?”
“You stubborn, ignorant bastard.” He was speaking through gritted teeth. “I love you. I don’t want you to die for me. I don’t want you to be hurt at all. I want you to be safe, with me. Why is that so hard to understand? What if you had died tonight? What the hell would I have done with myself once I had figured out that you did it for me?”
Jack forced himself to look directly at Oliver. “Then you would have known that you were loved in return.”
Oliver’s eyes flickered with frustration and gratification. “That’s your only way of showing it, then? Dying for someone?”
Jack nodded, grateful not to have to explain.
“You bastard. I want you to stay alive so I can continue to love you.” He bent down to kiss Jack softly, bracing his hands against the arms of Jack’s chair.
That should have been enough. Maybe for a reasonable person it would be. He sighed and rubbed his uninjured hand along the back of his neck. “God, Oliver. I need you to stop asking me to give up my life.” I love you too much to keep saying no.
“You need to spend the rest of the night here,” Oliver insisted. “So I can keep an eye on your arm.”
“My arm,” Jack said slowly. “Right.” He was leaning back in his chair, his uninjured arm hooked behind his head. He was shirtless and smirking and irresistible.
“Please,” Oliver said with a roll of his eyes. “You’ve just been shot. You can’t mean to . . .” He let his voice trail off, reluctant to specify exactly what he didn’t think Jack ought to be doing so soon after being shot.
But Jack wasn’t having any of that, evidently. “I can’t mean to what, Oliver?” he rumbled, his smirk dangerously close to an actual smile now. Likely if he knew he’d replace it with something less winning, Oliver thought.
Really. By all rights the man ought to be asleep. Oliver sighed. “You can’t mean to fuck me, Jack. There you go. Happy now? And you really can’t mean to, so go to bed and I’ll change your dressing in the morning.”
Jack didn’t move. “I don’t mean to fuck you. Technically speaking, at least. I mean for you to fuck me.”
That got Oliver’s interest. Jack asking for anything was an astonishing novelty. “Do you now?” And then reason descended. “That’s even more ludicrous. Go to bed.”
“Is there some kind of pamphlet that lists what sexual practices are acceptable after being shot? Perhaps you could lend it to me so I don’t make the same faux pas twice.” Jack had put on a crisp accent that Oliver gathered was supposed to be a parody of Oliver’s own.
Oliver raised an eyebrow. “Are you quite done?”
