Page 12 of Blade’s Edge (L.A.S.T. Defense #1)

“Emi, fucking hell. I’m taking you back to the hospital.” Jasper pulls me into his arms, brushing my hair away from my face. The concern in his blue eyes is something I should have been prepared for. But the intensity of it sends a ball of heat churning in my belly.

“No.” The heat turns to ice in a heartbeat. There’s no way I’d survive a whole night —even half of one—in the hospital. “I have a headache. I’m sore. But I’m fine . If you care about me getting any rest at all, you’ll…you’ll find my phone so I can plug it in, then come sleep in my room.”

He must understand just how not on board I am with any talk about going back to the hospital, because he sighs. “Don’t suppose I’d get very far anyway. Benny would ask how you’re doin’, you wouldn’t give him the code word, and he’d have my ass arrested. That sound about right?”

I almost laugh again, but I remember how well that worked out for me the last time, so I try for a sweet smile instead. “You were a highly decorated Ranger, Jasper. You wouldn’t spend more than a few hours in lockup.”

“Fuck me.” He shifts me gently off his lap and onto one of the chairs. “I’d never hear the end of it either.”

“Then get up. I’m exhausted, and I won’t sleep knowing you’re out here on the floor.” In truth, I’ll pass out the second I close my eyes, but Jasper doesn’t need to know that. “Oh, and I need my phone or it’ll be dead by morning. Where did you put my purse?”

Jasper lumbers to his feet with a groan. Lines of pain tighten around his lips. He limps over to my small table, retrieves my bag, and sets it next to me. “How bad’s the headache? Scale of one to ten?”

“Three.” That’s a bald-faced lie, but with my head bent rummaging through my purse, hopefully he won’t notice my flushed cheeks.

Five or six would be closer to the truth.

My fingers close around my phone, and I check the screen, but it’s too blurry for me to see much of anything. Shit. That’s probably not a good sign.

“Emi, look at me.” The command in his tone is impossible to ignore. His eyes are bloodshot, and there’s a small cut over his left brow. “Follow my finger.”

I’d roll my eyes if I weren’t afraid I’d pitch over from the motion. So I do what he asks. After I’ve recited the days of the week—backwards—told him what I ordered when we met at the sports bar, and confirmed my ears weren’t ringing, he holds out his hand.

“Back to bed with you.” I should refuse his help, but tucked against his side, I feel safe in a way I haven’t since the Fowler story first hit the air. When he tries to tuck me in, though, I point to the other side of the bed.

“You’re not the only one whose mama raised them to be hospitable. I don’t have anything big enough to fit you, but as long as you’re not going commando, you don’t need to sleep in your jeans or t-shirt. We’re both adults.”

I sink back against the pillows and stifle a yawn. Jasper sheds his jeans and t-shirt. Damn. In only a pair of black boxer briefs, he’s sexy as hell. Too bad I’m so tired I could cry.

Once he’s under the covers, I let myself relax. But despite how exhausted I am, sleep doesn’t steal me away. I try a couple different positions, but each one aggravates one bruise or another.

“Emi, if you don’t stop wrigglin’, I’m gonna have a problem I can’t do nothin’ about,” Jasper manages when my ass brushes his hip.

“Sorry. I didn’t realize how banged up I was.” Curling on my side facing him, I shove a hand under my pillow. “Or how big you were, apparently.”

He chuckles. “I’ll go back out to the living room?—”

“No. Stay.” I snag his arm, his skin so warm against my fingers. “Please.”

“On one condition.” He turns so he can study me in the semi-darkness. “You tell me why you hate hospitals so much that you’d check out against medical advice.”

Of course, he’d ask me about the one thing I don’t share with anybody. I could deflect. I should tell him I’m tired and we’ll talk in the morning. But he could have been seriously hurt tonight because of me. I won’t lie to him again.

“When I was seventeen, I started feeling…weird. Nauseous and exhausted all the time. My periods were really irregular, and my boyfriend and I had only done it once, so I didn’t even think…

” He stiffens, and I worry this is a very bad idea.

But I’m committed now. “I was a little over three months along when I started bleeding.”

Jasper doesn’t say a word, thank God, but he does cover my hand with his.

“I didn’t tell anyone for two days. But by then, I was in so much pain, I couldn’t hide it anymore.

My mother took me to the doctor. He was old school.

You know the type—small town, family values…

” A bone-weary sigh parts my lips. “He said I needed to let nature take its course.” My voice wobbles.

I twine my fingers with Jasper’s and hold on tight.

“I stayed home from school the next day. I don’t remember much, but my mom found me unconscious around four.

Uterine hemorrhage. Sepsis. They had to…

” Tears well in my eyes, trailing across my nose and down my temple.

“I spent a week hooked up to so many machines, I could barely move. And seventeen is way too young for a hysterectomy.”

“Fuck, sweetheart.” Jasper scoots closer, and I can’t help it. I let him put his arms around me and rest my head on his chest. “What do you need? Right now.”

“Just…hold me,” I whisper, suddenly so tired, I can barely get the words out.

“Yes, ma’am.” He shifts slightly, and one hand strokes gently up and down my back. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Maybe it’s the warmth of his touch, or sharing my deepest secret, but the tension drains from my body by degrees. “That’s why I couldn’t stay in the hospital.” The words slip over my tongue before I can stop them.

My throat burns with unshed tears, the way it always does when I think about what could’ve been. It’s not that I have a strong desire to have kids, but knowing the choice was taken from me… that was a violation. A crime. A tragedy.

For a long moment, Jasper is still, and I wonder if I’ve said too much. Or maybe he thinks I’m less now that he knows the truth. Less of a woman. Less of a person. Not worth his time.

Stop it.

I make a move to wriggle free, but he tightens his grip. “I’m so fucking sorry, Emi.”

The emotion in his tone tells me everything he can’t say. Because there are no words. Not for this.

My eyes, flutter shut, and a tear splashes my cheek, following the invisible path etched onto my skin from years of mourning this pain. “Me too.”