Page 15 of The SEAL's Duchess
Five minutes?She sucked in a shaky breath, willing her legs to cooperate. But before she could move, strong arms swept beneath her knees and around her back.
The world tilted again—but this time in a good way.
Oh.
She’d never been carried.
Not by someone who made it look effortless, who held her like she was precious instead of a problem to manage. Her hands found his shoulders instinctively. She was achingly aware of everything—the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the warmth radiating through his shirt, the careful way he adjusted his grip so she was comfortable. Each step vibrated through her body.
“I can walk,” she whispered, but didn’t try to get down.
“I know you can.” His stride never faltered. “Doesn’t mean you have to.”
Her pulse skipped. “You always treat civilians like glass?”
Ryder’s side-eye cut sharp, but his voice stayed low. “Only the ones who pretend they don’t bruise.”
The first-aid room lay down a flight of orange-painted stairs. In the center stood a reclining exam chair—half dentist’s chair, half cot. The vinyl creaked as Ryder lowered her onto it, the surface cool and faintly sticky with disinfectant.
He scanned the room once, then straightened. “I’ll be right back.”
Jack dragged over a battered office chair and dropped into it beside her. “That one’s a keeper.”
Ivy flushed. “We’re not—I mean…”
Jack gave her a look that stripped the excuse bare. “Barely know each other, sure. Honey, I’ve spent fifteen years out here with men who’d step over you if you bled out on the deck. That one?” She jerked her chin toward the door Ryder had disappeared through. “He damn near broke his back to get you here.”
Heat scorched Ivy’s neck. “No. You’re mistaken.”
“Uh-huh.” Jack’s weathered hand patted her knee. “I know the difference between routine and someone scared stiff. Ryder Meyer carried you as if you were made of spun glass.”
Ryder reappeared with a paper cup, steam curling from the top. Jack shot Ivy a wink and vacated her chair to give him space.
Ryder handed Ivy the cup. “Drink this.”
The cup was warm in her palms. Chocolate scent rose—rich and sweet—pulling her back to childhood nights by the fire, her mother combing her hair as it dried. The ache of loss pressed sharp in her throat.
Ryder slid in beside her. “It’s machine chocolate. But it’s hot.”
She took a sip, sweetness and warmth spreading down her throat, loosening the tension in her shoulders. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
He shrugged. “Protocol. Don’t let people die on my watch.”
Of course. Just his job.
“Ivy! There you are.” George filled the doorway, slightly out of breath. “Sinclair wants to know if you’re up for finishing the tour—or if we should call it.”
Not how are you feeling or are you hurt—but whether she was functional enough to continue with business.
Ryder was on his feet before she could answer, shoulders rigid, body blocking her from view. “She’s had a head injury. She needs rest, not another lap around the rig.”
The protective edge in his voice made something quiver treacherously in her chest.
He’s just doing his job.
She pushed to her feet, slipping between the two men. “I’m fine. I can make my own decisions.” She met Ryder’s gaze. “Thank you.”
She turned to her brother. “I’ve seen enough for one day. We can arrange another visit—when we’re not jet-lagged.”
