Page 13

Chapter Twelve

Carys

F inn’s chest is pressed to my face. He’s grappling for the gun at his waistband as his other arm helps shield me. It has to be the adrenaline. His injuries are still healing, and I’ve watched him walk enough the last few days to know he’s stiff and sore. His movements are sure, fluid, painless.

He glances at me, tucking his chin to meet my eyes. “Were you hit?”

I swallow. My shoulder stings. Is the pain from a bullet or how he dragged me to the ground? “I’m fine.”

Finn breaks eye contact to scan the rest of the area. “Jay!”

“Here.”

“Ricardo?” Silence greets his second roll call. He has me pinned so close to the floor I can’t see what else is happening.

“He’s down.” Jay shuffles to the door.

“Dead?” Finn says.

“Not sure.”

“Shit.” Finn’s free hand holds the gun, but our position means his back is to the entrance. “Any more shots?”

“Haven’t heard anything for a minute.”

“Target?”

“Take your fucking pick. Could be you, Carys, or Ricardo. You’re all hot depending on who’s shooting.”

The pain in my shoulder isn’t lessening. Finn is half-turned toward the wall. He’s not touching the part that’s burning, so the sensation is not from any pressure he’s putting on it.

“Can I get up?” I take a deep breath, willing the sting to leave.

“No,” Jay’s and Finn’s voices ring out in unison.

“I’m going to get Carys secured away from the door,” Finn says. “Cover me.”

“Ready,” Jay says.

With astonishing swiftness, Finn rolls off me, scoops me up and carries me to the back of the tiny house. There are no pings or curses from Jay, so I’m hoping there are no more bullets. Finn sets me on the floor by the white kitchen cabinets and crouches to meet my eyes.

“You do not move until I call clear or Jay does, okay? You stay here.”

I don’t have a chance to respond before he’s gone. My shoulder aches, and I rub it in circular motions. The skin rotates under my fingers, making the burning worse. With a frown, I remove my hand and stare at my fingers. Wet. Bright red. Shit.

Scanning the kitchen, I grab the dishcloth hanging on the stove. When I hold the cloth against my injury, a sharp breath escapes me. Should I call for Finn? If television can be believed, a bullet to the shoulder is probably the most minor gunshot. Jay or Finn shouldn’t be distracted if there is danger at the door.

Worry eats at me. The silence in the other room is almost too much. In any other situation, I’d never sit here waiting for someone to help me. I can shoot a gun. But I gave the only weapon I carry to Finn. It would be stupid to charge into the other room unarmed. I could take a knife, but the joke about bringing a knife to a gunfight is only funny when you’re not the one stupid enough to do it. My brain circles for ideas, but the niggling thought I’ve been trying to keep at bay sneaks in. I could have died. If Finn hadn’t hauled me down, I might have died. Closing my eyes, I let my shoulders rest against the chipped cupboards.

“All clear!” Jay’s voice rings out.

I haul myself to my feet and take the towel away from my shoulder. It’s covered in blood, but given the time I’ve been sitting there, there’s not a ridiculous amount. With a deep breath, I drop the cloth into the sink. There’s a mirror above it, and the neckline of my shirt is wide. My finger finds the hole and slips in. Definitely shot.

“You okay?” Finn’s voice is quiet in the kitchen.

I snatch my hand away and whirl toward him. “Fine.” My smile is tight.

He tips his head at my shirt. “What were you doing?”

“Oh, it’s—well—just—"

He sets the gun on the counter and closes the distance between us. He touches my shoulder, and I gasp. His fingers find the hole. His gaze connects with mine, anger and worry warring in his pale depths. “You were fucking shot?”

“Um.” I press my lips together. “I think so?”

“Jesus Christ, Carys. When were you going to tell me?”

“I’m sure it’s not an actual bullet wound, a graze, a scratch probably, a burn.” I tug my sleeve over the mark.

Finn pushes my shirt away from my arm, and his fingers land on the three buttons at the top that’ll make the material very loose.

I cover his hand, stilling his progress. “Don’t.”

“I need to see.” His free hand circles around my neck, his thumb grazing my cheek. “You might need a doctor.”

I move his hand aside and undo the buttons myself. There is something deeply intimate in letting him undress me, especially when he’s like this—tame, concerned, almost loving. After a storm of violence, he’s often gentle, and his tenderness makes my chest ache with longing.

My sleeve slips down, and he turns me. With the cloth from the sink, he washes the wound. “A graze.”

“Lucky,” I whisper. His proximity, the tangy scent of him, this kindness will undo the immunity I’ve fought for today.

His thumb grazes the top of my arm, just beside the mark, and then he bends his head to kiss my shoulder. A shiver runs through me. Electrifying.

“Finn,” I murmur, and my body is liquid, pliable. He could do anything to me, and I’d let him.

His arms slide around my waist, and he buries his face in the crook of my neck. “God, how do you always smell so fucking amazing? Someday when I die, I hope the way you smell is the last thing I remember.”

I relish the simplicity of this moment. I breathe him in, letting my awareness of him flood my senses. Our desire won’t be fulfilled, not here in this house with danger outside the door. He’d never risk my safety. Being able to acknowledge the yearning between us makes me less unstable, more solid.

“Jay? Ricardo?” I ask when he eases away.

“Jay is fine. Ricardo is dead.”

“Dead? How?”

“We got lucky. Ricardo was a direct hit through a window.”

“Oh.” I smooth my hair at the top of my head. “Right. This is… I mean, I know we deal with weapons, but they aren’t often used on us.” I lean against the counter while Finn opens kitchen cabinets. “What are you looking for?”

“First aid kit. I can patch that up, no problem.” He nods toward my shoulder.

“There’ll be a kit in the car's trunk.” The graze is still trickling blood, but the pain isn’t the same as before. “What’s Jay doing?”

“Calling the Russian police and figuring out how we can pay them off to keep us out of this.” He winks at me. “Money can solve almost anything if you get the right people.”

“Except you hate disloyal people.”

He chuckles. “Only when it doesn’t go my way.” He reaches for me and then he thinks better of it, sliding his hand into his front pocket. “Let’s get you to the car. We can wait there for Jay to finish, and I’ll patch you up.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. “If you hadn’t—”

His jaw tightens, and he won’t meet my gaze. “But I did. The lesson here is that you are never to be the first person in or out of anywhere, not a car, not a house, not a boat, nowhere.” He stares at me. “You got me?”

“I don’t want you or Jay hurt or killed either.”

With a shake of his head, Finn purses his lips. “Jay’s paid to do this. It’s his job. He doesn’t want it, he can go work somewhere else. And me? I’m disposable. I got nothing going on right now except for helping you. What’s another bullet wound?”

“You’re not disposable to me.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, gliding over my comment as though my husky voice filled with need sounded matter-of-fact instead of desperate. “For the purposes of entering and exiting places, we’ll pretend I am. Also, I could use my own fucking gun.”

I keep an arm crossed over my middle as though it can shield me. “Okay.”

He leads the way out of the house. We pass Jay on the phone in the living room. He has my gun in his hand as we walk to the vehicle, ready to aim and fire at any moment.

“Maybe they were after Ricardo?” I say.

“Maybe.” But Finn doesn’t sound convinced.

I get into the back seat, and he grabs the first aid kit from the trunk. He opens the door and settles beside me. For a moment, he sits with the red bag wedged between his hands. His gaze trails over me, assessing. As he unzips it, he says, “Take off your shirt.”

“You can put a bandage over it if I slip my shirt off my shoulder.”

His fingers skim my shoulder, and he shakes his head. “’Fraid not. I’ll do a shitty job.” When he shifts in the seat to bandage my shoulder, a wince escapes him.

“What about you?” My brow furrows, remembering his injuries and the way he moved in the house. “You could have torn stitches.”

“Oh, I’m sure something is torn.”

“Let me see.”

He smirks. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Not the best line I’ve heard.”

He eyes me with amusement. “Well, you’re sober now. I suppose I should have known I’d have to up my game.”

I find the hem of my shirt and hesitate. Should I take it off? “And you think I’m confusing.”

He eases away from me, giving me space. When he ruffles the hair at the back of his head, he winces. “I won’t touch anything but your wound. I swear.”

His promise is both what I’m hoping for and what I’m afraid of. His hands on my body are enough to send other parts of me into overdrive. Steeling myself, I remove my shirt in one swift motion. True to his word, he homes in on the gouge in my shoulder. He works in silence for a few moments, cleaning the wound and then finding the right dressing for it. As his fingers dance across my skin, my body heats, minimizing the sting from my injury.

“Might scar,” he says.

“I have people who can fix it if it does.”

He indicates the scar on my chest as he packs up. “Why didn’t you fix that?”

The knife that pierced my heart.

I brush my fingers against it. “Feels like an old friend now.”

He squints and then frowns. “What the fuck kinda friend is that?”

“One who reminds you of the places you don’t want to go again.” An asshole thing to say when he’s been so kind. Instinct drives me to draw him to me but also to repel him as far away as possible. I open my mouth to apologize when his jaw tightens. I may not know what I want, but I know what I need. The responsible choice. Distance. The closer we inch together, the closer sober Carys is to saying fuck me, please . There’s still enough of me that cares about the consequences.

He forces the zipper on the kit. The metallic sound of the teeth clicking together is loud in the tense silence.

“You should let me look at you.” I try to take the bag and our fingers brush.

The driver’s door pops open, and I yank my shirt back over my head in a fluid, frantic motion. Finn chuckles beside me.

Jay’s gaze connects with mine in the rearview mirror, and he raises his eyebrows. His eyes flick between me and Finn but he says nothing about the blush raging across my cheeks. “You hurt?”

“A graze.” Finn settles deeper into the seat near the door, far from me. “A brush with danger.”

Satisfied, Jay shifts the vehicle into drive. A brush with danger . If only that was it. But his flames lick at me from across the car, enticing me, biding their time until they can burst into an inferno, consuming me whole.