Page 119 of Painted Scars
“Come in.” I try again, but nothing wants to work.
He comes up behind me, his heat familiar, but no longer safe. “Consent to help you undress? Just the outer layers.”
Shit. Best not to let him see my pearl-silver panties and bra, but I can’t do this alone in the state I’m in. And my Book Girlie needs his touch like we need air despite his treachery, and the traitor leans into him.
“Please.” My voice is small.
He’s careful, easing the silk down my shoulders like I’m made of the blown glass he works in the fire. His eyes don’t leave my face, checking for every wince and signs I want him to stop. He trades my blouse for his softest cotton t-shirt, the hem brushing my thighs, the fabric cold on my skin. His fingers don’t stray or linger for too long. Both halves of me war over that.
“Come.” He jerks his head, and I track after him. “There’s a glass of water on the nightstand with your phone and purse. Call Harper. Get her to take Josh and stay somewhere safe. With my associate. She’ll know.”
“What?” I lift my brows.
“I’m not the only one with secrets, huh?” He presses a cold pack wrapped in a tea towel to my abdomen. “Ask her. It’s her story to tell, not mine. Calls of less than a minute can’t be traced with the software my associate employs.”
I wrap my fingers around the pack, and the relief wets my eyes.
“I’m just on the sofa,” he whispers. “If your head pain spikes or you feel sick or dizzy, call out my name. I’ve set alarms forevery two hours to check on you. If you need the bathroom and need my help, tell me. If the dark gets too loud?—”
“Guard dog on duty,” I finish for him, and enjoy his mouth softening for the first time tonight. “Suppose a lullaby is out of the question?”
He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “Low volume Celine Dion. Doctor’s orders.”
A kiss lands at my hairline, and it burns into my icy skin. He lingers for a beat, and my fingers flex to reach up and hold him there. When he withdraws, I nearly fall apart for the third time tonight.
He ushers me under the sheets he holds up. They smell like soap, cedar, cinnamon, and the ghost of his cologne, confirming he barely sleeps here.
I rub the crochet throw he has over his bed. Blues mix with greys and cream. Soft, warm, heavy, and safe like August. It domesticates the loft, but doesn’t feel very Grumpy Stalker.
“Where are the doilies?” I tease.
“My grandmother made it.” He drags his knuckles down the yarn. “I call it a hug you can wash. It’s all I have of her beside memories.”
Oh, fuck. “I’m sorry.”
“She’d have laughed.”
I hook a finger through a loop. “Can I steal her hug, or do you want it?”
“Steal the hug.” He tucks it under my shoulder.
I’m tempted to pull my arm out and catch his hand and rub it, but I don’t give in to the desire.
“Good night, Glitter Bomb.” The faint whisper spells there’s hope for us.
We’re nowhere near forgiveness. Not yet. But it feels like it can grow into it someday. Underneath the rubble of the bomb he detonated, the glitter that burned to dust slowly reforms.
When he moves away, I dial Harper and clue her in. We don’t talk for long, essentials only. She agrees to pack a bag and leave with Josh to an unknown location. Best if I don’t know if the authorities hunt me down.
Relieved that my dog and bestie will be safe, I snuggle under the covers and slide my eyes closed.
The chair creaks as August settles on it and throws a blanket over himself. I know if anyone comes for us, they’ll have to go through him first.
CHAPTER 34 - KATE
He’s there in the morning, sitting by my bed, wide awake, reading something on his phone. He’s swapped the ice pack for a hot water bottle to keep me warm. Steam rises from the coffee resting by his outstretched legs.
“Morning.” He looks over at me, regret engraved into his forehead. “Can I check your wound?”
