"Okay," she whispers.
"Do you believe me?"
"Yes."
"Good. Because you don't get to be afraid of me. Be afraid of the rest of the world if you want, but never me. I’m the shield, not the sword. At least, not for you."
She nods, a small, shaky movement. Then she takes a breath, and I watch the steel return to her spine. She pushes the vulnerability aside, locking it away to deal with later.
"Gabriel?”
I gently rub the muscles in the back of her neck and she lets out a soft moan that makes my dick thicken. “Yeah, baby?”
“I'm tired of this room," she says with a cute wrinkle of her nose. "Can you please take me home? I want to sleep in our bed."
"Fine. But you don't lift a finger. You don't walk. You don't stress. You heal."
"Deal."
My lips press against her forehead.
"Let's go home, Mrs. Hollis."
There’sfaint Christmas music playing over the speakers when we walk into the house.
I carried her over the threshold, ignoring her protests that she could walk. She weighs nothing. The stress of the last few days has taken a toll, and ensuring the chef increases her caloric intake is now a priority. She’s eating for two.
And doing this reminds me I need to slip my ring on her finger, the one in the drawer of my nightstand.
I don’t stop on the way up to our bedroom. I’m not taking any chances with Blair overexerting herself or getting dizzy and falling.
The second Christmas tree—the fifteen-foot Fraser Fir—glows in the corner, its white lights casting gentle shadows across the room.
She settles on the edge of the bed, and I go to help her take off the jacket she’s draped in.
"I can undress myself," she says, shrugging out of the jacket and reaching for the hem of the hospital-issued shirt she’s wearing. They had to cut off her clothes, and my fingers clench at my sides at the reminder.
"No."
Kneeling in front of her puts me at her level.
My hands are gentle as they push hers away. “I need to do this.” Her shoes come off, first the left, then the right. And then she lifts her hips with a wince as I slide the scrub pants down her legs.
She’s covered in bruises.
Her shins. Her hips. A dark, ugly mottling across her ribs where she slammed into the seatbelt.
Seeing the map of violence on her skin makes my vision blur with red. Finding Ryder right now feels like a necessity. Tearing him apart with my bare hands would be mercy compared to what I want to do.
But breathing through it is the only option.
This moment isn't about him. It’s about her.
Standing allows me to help her with the top. She lifts her arms with caution, wincing from the pain in her ribs.
When the fabric falls away, the worst of it is visible. The bruising on her shoulder and chest.
The growl building in my throat dies before it escapes.
