I pull back her hair as she continues to retch, not bringing anything else up.
“Okay, princess,” I soothe, “Let’s get you back.”
She groans as I help her to stand, her white tee is stained with the punch and her skin is sticky with it, but I don’t think she really notices. Fucking hell, how much did she drink!?
The garage is just through the woods, it’ll be a ten-minute walk at most on a good day, but with a drunk girl that can barely use her legs? Nah.
“Hold on,” I grumble, sliding my arms under her legs and back and hoist her off the ground. She doesn’t fight me and her head thumps against my shoulder, body completely working against her. My stomach twists at the thought of anyone being able to use her like this, because they would have. The races draw a big crowd and not all of them have the best intentions. We don’t have security.
I’m going to lose my shit at Rach for this.
It takes a little over ten minutes to get back to the garage since I was moving slower with her in my arms, but when I get there I use the side door to get into the living quarters and flick on the light.
She’s sound asleep against me, her head resting between my shoulder and neck.
Fuck, what do I do now?
I stand in the middle of the small space and close my eyes, breathing deeply to calm myself before I sigh and move her to my bed, laying her down onto the mattress and on top of the messy sheets. She curls immediately into a ball, snuggling her face into my pillow, her blonde hair a striking contrast against the dark cotton.
This isn’t how I intended to get her into my bed.
Grumbling to myself, I head through to the bathroom and wet a cloth with warm water, the last thing she is going to want is to wake sticky and still smelling like the alcohol that made her sick. With it in hand, I head back to her, placing it down to remove the sneakers from her feet and then move to the soaked through shirt. Her shorts seem to have escaped unscathed.
I hook my fingers beneath her shirt, my knuckles brushing against the soft skin of her abdomen as I gently pull it up until I can slip it over her head. I purposely keep my eyes averted, grabbing the cloth and quickly wiping her chest and stomach down before I snatch up a t-shirt and tug it onto her. She remains sleeping the entire time, only mumbling in her sleep as I push and pull on her to try and get her covered.
Not at all how I intended.
I huff out a sigh and head back to the bathroom, shutting and locking the door so I can shower and wash away the grime and sweat from the track. When I return, a towel around my hips, she’s rolled across the bed so she’s facing the wall, curled up so small she’s almost swallowed by the pillows and sheets. She breathes evenly, peacefully in sleep.
Folding myself down into the recliner in the corner of the room, I stretch out my legs, the towel keeping me covered. I’ll get dressed in a minute, but I want to watch her for a while longer, let my eyes devour her. My tee covers her almost to her mid thighs, hiding the little shorts she has on underneath. Smooth sun kissed skin tempts me to touch but I keep my hands to myself.
She seems so damn innocent, a little naïve. And so fucking pretty.
I run my fingers up the burns on my arm, the scarred flesh rough and bumpy under my fingertips, a reminder to myself of who she is exactly and who she shares blood with.
She may be the whole pretty package, wrapped up with ribbon and all but there’s many poisonous things in life that’s beautiful.
You don’t know how deadly it is until it’s too late.
I rest my head in my hand, my eyes still on her until they become so heavy I can no longer keep them open and end up passing out in the chair.
Chapter Ten
My head pounds, this awful throbbing that starts at my temples and bands across my forehead, and my stomach is rolling. I groan as I flip onto my back, my eyes squeezed closed.
It takes me a moment to realize the bed I’m on feels different to what I’m used to and when I force one eye open, I see the ceiling and a lampshade that’s definitely not mine. Panic consumes me so quickly, the sickness and headache are forgotten. I bolt up in the bed, eyes wide only to freeze when I see who is across the room, still sleeping and only in a towel.
River Sinclair is a work of art.
I stare at him from the bed, his head resting in his palm, and he’s stretched out on the chair, the towel knotted at the front. There’s bruising on the side of his face, deep shadows that look fresh and a small cut on his brow.
The plains of his abdomen are carved as if from marble, the ridges and valleys so defined I want to trace them with myfingertip. Hair trails from his naval to beneath the knot of his towel, framed on either side by the deep lines of his hips. And then there’s the scars, the flesh mottled, discolored and uneven, it travels down over his pec and a little onto his ribcage and then up over his shoulder, crawling up the side of his neck and down his entire arm.
I’m still staring when his sleepy voice fills the silence, “Enjoying the view, princess?”
My eyes jump to his, still heavy with sleep but they’ve crinkled at the side, the amusement lighting them up.
“I wasn’t,” I lie, “I mean I was, but I wasn’t like,looking.”
