Page 4 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Clara

I blink my eyes open, my body aching in ways I’ve never felt before, my fingers and toes tingling and burning, swollen and stiff. Snippets return to me. The cold. Trips losing it, destroying the tree. Heat that ached and burned like I was on fire. A kind woman feeding me something warm. Darkness.

Peering through the early morning light, I find Trips sprawled across one of the blue chairs, pulled close to the bed, his lashes shadows against his pale skin, his hands bandaged. I try to turn, but my limbs are heavy. Awkward.

My struggle has Trips’ eyes flashing open, the blue black-tinged in the dim room.

“Careful, I’ll get you,” he whispers, helping me sit, tucking pillows behind me. “Tea? Coffee? It’s probably cold, but it’s something.”

I shake my head, my brain fuzzy. “What happened? I remember outside, and then some lady?”

He pulls the chair so his knees touch the bedding. “We need to whisper, Clara. I crushed the camera, but my dad probably put some redundancy in our room.”

“What happened?” I insist, quietly.

Trips closes his eyes, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I fucked up. I dragged you out into the snow, but got so caught up in my anger that I didn’t see you. You’d obviously tried to get my attention, but. Fuck. I’m so sorry, Clara. You had hypothermia. And it’s my fault.”

Both of his hands drag through his rumpled hair as I try to process what he just said.

“Shit. I’ve been there, not as bad as you, but…I got you in, got you warm without brain damage. At least, do you think you have brain damage?”

His eyes flash open, fear written there clearly. Am I brain damaged? “Shouldn’t I have gone to a hospital?”

His lips turn down. “Maybe. Probably. I don’t know. I panicked.”

“Do I have frostbite?” Panic flares. “Are my fingers rotting off?” I pull my heavy arms from under the blankets, vaguely wondering whose coat I’m wearing.

My fingers look normal, albeit swollen and red.

I try to pluck the blankets off to check my toes, but my hands aren’t quite working right.

Trips reaches over to help, his bandaged hands not doing any better than mine.

Once I see my toes, no dead flesh on them, a whimper of relief escapes.

Trips’ eyes are closed, his semi-useless hands gripping the edge of the mattress. “I’m so fucking sorry, Clara.”

I look at this man, bowed beside me. He didn’t do this to me.

But he didn’t prevent it either. He was furious.

That part was reasonable. Apparently, we’re going to be engaged in a few hours.

Something neither of us planned for when we came yesterday.

This was supposed to be a curtsy to the king, nothing more. Yet here we are.

But he lost control. And when I tried to help, I nearly lost myself. That blankness, those lost minutes, hours maybe—I have no way of knowing. They were preventable. It’s not all his fault. But it’s not all mine either. “I’m not sure I can forgive you right now, Trips.”

“Good. You shouldn’t.” When he opens his eyes, they’re as frozen as I was.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so stuck in my head.

If I’d just thought for one fucking second about what I was doing, this wouldn’t have happened.

I never should have made you leave the house in a fucking slip of a dress and nothing else.

It snowed all night. And I dragged you out into that, then fucking ignored you.

And when I finally came back to myself, shit, Clara.

I thought you were dead. You could have died.

A heart attack or a stroke if I warmed you up wrong.

I should have gone straight to the hospital, consequences be damned.

I’ve been sitting here, wishing I’d done something different.

Anything different. But I didn’t. Don’t forgive me. I don’t deserve it.”

“Then earn it,” I whisper, wishing I could just ask him to hold me, to tell me it’ll be okay, but knowing I can’t. Not right now. Maybe not ever. Not forgiving. Not forgetting. But some part of me still hopes. And I hate and love that part of me in equal measure right now.

He drops his head. “How?”

“Find a different way of dealing, Trips. A better one. One that doesn’t leave you with busted knuckles and me with hypothermia. I don’t know what that is, Trips. I can’t fix you. You have to fix yourself.”

I swear tears glint on his eyelashes as his lips twist to one side. He gives a single nod. “Would you like a bath?” he asks, changing the subject, his voice cracking.

I ignore my tears as they dribble down my cheeks. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”

He leaves the room, the sound of the tub filling loud in the early morning silence.

But he stays in the bathroom, hiding, and I don’t follow, uncertain if I even could.

Instead, I stare at the crumple of dusky pink silk on the blue rug, my stomach turning.

I almost died. I’m being forced into an engagement with the one guy who’s always kept his distance—because he knew his world was dangerous.

That he was dangerous. Maybe not in the way he’d imagined, but it’s there.

The evidence isn’t covered in blood, although there are darker smears on the silk, likely from his hands.

Rather, it’s in the damp silk itself. In the ache of my skin and the fuzziness of my mind.

In the threat to my future. Married. To Trips. In three months.

The pregnancy demand is laughable. I have an IUD. At least that part of the vulture’s plan won’t come to pass.

But he threatened us all. He knew Trips’ weakness was the rest of us and guessed the guys were mine as well.

He wasn’t wrong.

My mind blank and my limbs heavy, I stumble to the bathroom, Trips rushing out to help me in, hands hovering around my person like he has no right to touch me.

He doesn’t.

But it doesn’t mean I wish he wouldn’t.

Closing the door behind him, leaving me in the beautiful bathroom by myself, a pile of blood-stained towels in a heap on the counter, the cleanest one sitting beside the tub, I unzip myself from the mystery coat, two towels falling to the floor.

One from my neck and one from somewhere on my body.

Forcing my hands to shimmy off my shapewear, I wonder about the parts of the night I’m missing.

Did Trips cut me free? Did that woman? Mary. She said her name was Mary. How do they know how to treat hypothermia? I didn’t even realize that brain damage was a thing that could happen. I mean, it makes sense. But I’ve never thought about it.

The water sears, and I let it. Cold settled into my bones overnight, like summer will never kiss my skin again. The tears still leak from my eyes, like some kind of broken faucet, but they’re lazy tears. Exhausted tears. Empty tears.

I’ll make it through today. Through the second half of the torture of a Westerhouse family event. Tonight, I’ll lie in a pile of limbs, surrounded by warmth and love. And we’ll figure it out. Probably not today. Maybe not this week, or even this month. But there must be a way out.

A trick. A scheme. A possibility.

For myself. For Trips. For all of us.