Page 53 of The SEAL's Duchess
Her breath warmed his palm, and he knew one thing.
He wouldn’t lose her again.
23
Two hours of tests,X-rays, and questions she could barely answer through the haze. Now, the fluorescent lights in the emergency department needled Ivy’s eyes as the attendant wheeled her down the corridor, traces of antiseptic riding the air like cold metal. Voices stacked around her, heels ticking on the tile like a metronome she couldn’t shut off.
She clutched discharge papers against her chest, the doctor’s verdict ringing in her ears—possible mild concussion, lacerations, bruising along her ribs.
Lucky,he’d called her.
It felt more like she’d been turned inside out.
The automatic doors sighed open as the orderly wheeled her into the waiting area. The quiet hit her—no more chatter, no more alarms—just the low hum of vending machines and a muted television.
Oh God.
Ryder.
He sat hunched forward in one of those uncomfortable molded plastic chairs, elbows braced to his knees, head buried in his hands. His shoulders curved inward as if he was bracing aweight only he could hold. His fingers dug into his hair, tension vibrating through every line of his body.
He’d been here the entire time. Hours. Since they made him leave because he wasn’tfamily. While strangers shone lights in her eyes and asked the same questions again and again.
He’d waited.
Her throat closed.
The squeak of her wheelchair made him lift his head. Their gazes hit and held, and whatever fragile composure she’d scraped together shattered. Her chest squeezed tight, breath ragged.
The look on his face?—
“You waited,” she whispered.
He was on his feet before she finished the words, crossing the room to her in three long strides. “I’ve got her.”
The orderly barely had time to nod before Ryder set the brake. He offered his hand. She placed hers in his, and he pulled her gently to her feet. Only inches separated them. His palm cupped her jaw, fingers threading into her hair at the nape of her neck. She let her eyes close, soaking up the warmth of his touch
“Of course I fucking waited.” His words sounded abraded. “Come on.”
She followed silently as he guided her through the sliding doors, his arm steady through hers, his body a wall of heat against the cold night air. At his truck, he opened the passenger door and boosted her up like she weighed nothing. Then he leaned in, reaching across her to tug the seatbelt down. His knuckles brushed her collarbone as the buckle clicked, and she shivered at the contact.
“Is that okay?”
“Yes, thanks.” The belt felt secure across her chest, holding her together when everything else threatened to splinter apart.
He rounded the hood and climbed behind the wheel. The engine growled awake, heat flowing from the vents. Outside, fat snowflakes spun in the headlight beams, muffling the world in white.
They drove in silence through the empty streets, the radio burbling low. Two in the morning, and the world felt abandoned. Just the two of them moving through the storm, enclosed in the warm bubble of his truck.
When he slowed, then turned into a driveway instead of continuing toward town, her pulse stumbled.
“This isn’t my hotel.”
He cut the ignition. The dashboard light carved his features in stark planes, and his gaze locked on her.
“Think I’m letting you out of my sight tonight? Think again.”
Her breath caught. “Oh.”
