Page 2 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Trips

T he persistent ache in my hands, swollen and mangled, with at least a few bones cracked if not broken, forces me back into my body. Back to the fucked-up reality where the one person I was working to keep safe at all costs has been well and truly fucked over.

I slump forward, my forehead pressed against the destroyed tree, calming down enough to face Clara. It’s bad enough I lost it. She doesn’t need to deal with the aftermath.

The wind cuts through my dress shirt, my sweat icy against my chest, and I shuck off my blazer, careful of my hands, ready to offer it to Clara.

I dragged her out here in a silk sleeveless gown and heels. In a fucking blizzard. I’m the worst asshole ever.

Turning, I don’t find her waiting, but there’s no trail back to the house either.

Fear, a different, brighter pitch, hums in my chest as I trace the mostly snow-filled steps behind the tree I’d attacked. The deep post holes lead to a slim body curled under a layer of melting snow, fingers and lips blue.

The sound I make differs from any other I’ve made before, a choked whimper as I scramble to her, trying to wrap her in my blazer with swollen, busted hands, whispering her name and getting nothing in return.

“What the fuck, Clara? Why’d you stay out here? You should have gone in. Fuck, you should have refused to leave the fucking house with me. God damn it, Clara, say something.”

Struggling to pull her into my arms, I manage it, but without being able to grip her, every step through the deep snow is precarious.

I keep her pressed as close to me as I can, trying to share some of my warmth with her, needing her to wake up, to yell at me, to come up with a half-assed, terrifying plan to fix anything and everything.

Instead, I have icy skin against my sweat-drenched shirt, the wind quickly cooling me past shivers to a sluggish numbness.

By the time I make it out of the woods, I’m terrified and torn.

I need to get Clara warm, but I can’t let my father have anything else over us.

I’m voice messaging Mattie before I can think too hard about it, barely able to hit the buttons to do even that.

Slipping into the back door of the garage, I stumble to the lower level, sleep threatening to take me the same as it has Clara.

Mattie meets me, giggling and rosy-cheeked in the mudroom, but the sight of us sobers her up fast. “What happened?” she asks.

“I’m a fucking idiot. Did you bring a blanket?”

She hands me her knee-length down coat. “I got you one better. But shouldn’t she go to the hospital?”

“Probably. But I’ve dealt with this before.” I lay her on the floor, careful to keep her horizontal.

“You have experience with hypothermia?”

“Personally. Do you know a safe path to the room Father put us in?”

“Not particularly, but he’s probably moved the cameras and mics to the areas closest to the ballroom.”

My sluggish brain should have figured that out myself. “Right. Of course. Thanks, Sparkles.”

“Text me if you need anything else.”

“Can you have Mary send up soup in an hour? Wait, no, hot cocoa. Tea, coffee? Shit, I don’t know.”

“She’ll know what you need.”

“Yeah. She will. Thanks.”

I wrap Clara in the down coat, tossing my blazer back over my shoulders as it warms me enough to shiver again. We take the back stairs, staying as far from the party as possible, my hands still struggling to keep her in my arms as chills ripple through me. Why am I such a fuckup? Shit.

She has to be okay.

There’s no plan to fix this if she isn’t okay. There’s just the end of everything.

The guys would never forgive me. I would never forgive me.

Fuck. At least she’s breathing.

But blue still coats her lips, despite being inside, wrapped head to heels in down.

Back in our room, I lay her on the bed, daring a palm to her cheek as some kind of prayer before I rush into the bathroom, hoping my father’s need to always look rich extends to this random guest room.

And it does.

I shove two towels into the towel warmer, striding back into the room, staring at the ceiling for the camera I know has to be there.

Finding it, I yank it down, risking the wrath of my father as I take it to the bathroom and stomp on it.

Then I pace between Clara and the bathroom as I wait for the damn towel warmer to finish doing its thing.

Once it dings, I jam two more towels in, then fold the warm ones, one to fit around her neck and one to fit over her chest. By the time I unzip the coat, my brain is finally working well enough to realize she’s still in the wet silk.

Digging through my bag for my kit is excruciating with my knuckles in the state they’re in, but who the fuck cares.

I find my straight razor and, hating myself even more than I did a minute ago, cut her out of the dress, too scared to move her and risk the cold blood from her extremities making it to her heart and brain and killing her.

God fucking dammit.

Once she’s just in weird shorts-things and nothing else, I tuck the towels over her chest and neck, then zip her back into the down coat. Having run out of steps to take, I sit next to her on the bed, watching every breath she takes, waiting for her lips to go back to their dusky pink.

I’m switching out the towels for the third time when her lashes flutter against her cheeks.

“Clara?”

She blinks her eyes open, a shiver rippling through her, and I could cry. As her hazy gaze locks on mine, she chatters, tears running down her cheeks.

She tries to say something, and I stop her, leaning close to whisper in her ear. “No. Just rest. I’m going to get you some more warm towels, but I need you to lie flat and not move until you’re warm. Can you do that?”

A shaky nod is all she can manage, but the shivers are the best thing that could happen right now. Her body’s coming back, working to fix itself.

I trade out more towels, my hands aching, blood smeared across everything I’ve touched since I got in this room.

My fault.

All my fault.

Forcing myself past the ache, I fold the towels back into the right shapes, unzipping the coat and tucking them in, setting the old ones beside her on the bed, zipping her back up.

A knock at the door has fear rocketing through me until I remember asking Mattie to send Mary up.

Damn fucking cold, making me extra dumb.

I didn’t need help being dumb, not tonight.

Opening the door, Mary, grandmotherly in a way I’ve never experienced in any blood relative, meets me with a tray full of steaming liquids.

I let her in without saying anything. She knows this house as well as I do. Don’t speak your mind unless you know it’s safe.

Her eyes get big as she takes in Clara on the bed, zipped to the chin in Mattie’s blood-smeared white down coat, shaking with the force of her shivers, rust-crusted towels piled next to her, shredded rose silk on the blue rug.

I lean in to explain, taking her by the elbow and directing her to the side table. “Hypothermia.”

She tugs on my sleeve, forcing me to tilt my head down to her. “Did you remember not to warm her too quickly? Dry heat to the core? Keep her horizontal?”

I nod, guilt swamping me as Mary rushes to Clara, taking her temperature with the back of her hand like she always did for me when I was little. She leans down, whispering to Clara, Clara’s full body spasms turning to normal shivers the longer Mary talks to her. Another good sign.

The urge to punch something flares. But that’s what got me into this. That’s what got Clara into this. My goddamn useless temper. A waste of space. Nothing but a dumb brain and big fists.

Returning to the bathroom, I pull off my blood-splattered blazer, kicking it into the corner, then run my mangled hands under icy water.

When they’re numb, long after the water runs clear, I pull them out, drying them on the bloodiest of the towels on the vanity.

Not sure what else to do, I take two more towels out of the warmer and shove two dirty ones in.

Even my father’s perceived generosity runs out of linens eventually.

Bringing the towels to Mary, I let her switch them out, her gaze sliding to mine when she sees how little Clara’s wearing. But we both know that getting her warm was a whole lot more important than preserving her modesty.

And it’s not like I haven’t seen her naked before. Or felt the way she melts when we touch.

I guess my father’s seen that, too. Fuck.

Clara’s barely shivering, now. Mary must think she’s out of the woods enough to sit her up and force some broth into her.

I should help.

But I did this. I wouldn’t want me to touch me if I’d almost killed me.

My brain is short-circuiting.

Clara’s big brown eyes find me halfway between the bed and the bathroom, blinking slowly before closing. Sleep, a good kind, takes her.

Mary sighs, setting the bowl back on the tray. Then she stands, turning to me, pushing me into the bathroom.

She doctors my hands in silence, like she has doctored me so many other nights, wounds self-inflicted or otherwise.

Once my cuts have been cleaned and taped, my knuckles prodded and wrapped, she pats my cheek, resignation and sadness written there as clear as if she were speaking to me.

Archie, if you fucked shit up, you’ve got to fix it. Otherwise, you’re no better than he is.

She leaves, having said nothing above a whisper.