Page 32 of A Forbidden Arrangement

Don’t start.

Bash:

Romantic as fuck. Does Hallmark make a card for that?

Me:

Fuck off.

Damon:

Locked her in the house already?

Matthias:

I knew you took after me.

Bash:

When’s the baby?

My thumb hovers over the screen, jaw locked tight, pretending those words don’t swirl a want deep in my gut. I take a long drink before I can reply.

Me:

Keep talking and you’ll never meet her.

The screen stays quiet after that. Good.

A shout. Then the crack of something hitting the floor above.

My glass is down before it stops ringing. I take the stairs two at a time and stop short at her room.

I pause, hovering, then plant my shoulders to the opposite wall so she has the length of the hall between us.

“It’s not locked,” I say, voice low.

The door cracks open a few inches. Enough for me to see her. She’s got a lamp raised like a weapon, bare feet planted on the floor, wearing one of my shirts that hangs too loose on her frame. Her grip is tight, knuckles white against the ceramic.

She looks ready to fight.

And so fucking beautiful. I keep my hands at chest level where she can see them. Open. Empty.

“Easy,” I say.

Her eyes instantly find mine. I check for the usual signs of a concussion worsening, but her gaze is sharp, no glassiness, no delay as they dart away, then back again. Her chest rises and falls with her quick, shallow breaths, making her look like she’s been running, even though she hasn’t taken a step.

Instinct pulls me forward, my hand lifting toward her wound. She jerks back, wood sliding between us like a shield, and I stop cold midway across the hall.

I let the distance hold. My fingers curl once, then flatten against the sides of my thighs.

“We need to change your bandages,” I say, nodding at the gauze.

Her grip on the lamp tightens. The gap doesn’t widen.

I hate the tremor in her arms. Hate the way she braces like she’s waiting for me to break her down. I stay where I am and let her watch me. Let her see I’m not coming through that gap unless she asks.

“I’ll do it myself.” Her voice is tight, chin tipped like she’s daring me to argue.