“I’m okay,” she whispers.
Ares nods.
“The shop?”
“Marilyn and I will take care of it,” Ares quickly assuages her worry. “Do you need anything?”
Her cheeks flush as she shakes her head quickly. Her hair spills over her shoulders with the movement, revealing a bruise just underneath the line of her jaw. Ares freezes, his hands fisting, but he doesn’t say anything.
He releases a heavy sigh. “Okay. I’ll talk to you in a few days.” His gaze shifts to me. “Do you have her shop key? And the alarm code?”
“We weren’t able to set the alarm. Let me grab her keychain.” I kiss Carys’s temple. “I’ll be right back. Don’t panic.”
Her eyes slowly glaze over. I run my thumb under her chin and down her throat, carefully marking her with my scent to try and buy us a few more minutes before she succumbs to the heat again. Ares is silent as he walks back to the apartment door, his frown etched deep enough to seem permanent.
“Paxton?” he asks as I drop the only keychain Carys had in her bag. “He helped you, too?”
The lie sits heavy in my throat. It tastes bitter as hell as it leaves my mouth.
“Yeah, he was there, too. He should be good to travel tomorrow, but Ashton will know better. None of us were all that great by the time I got her out of the shop.”
His throat moves with his swallow. “All right. Call Marilyn if you need something while we’re gone.”
He closes the door behind him after I give a quiet agreement. I take a moment to stretch the tension from my neck, letting the adrenaline fade as best I can. There’s a whimper from Carys. I’m running back to her, that adrenaline surging again. She still kneels on the bed, her hair falling over one shoulder. Her eyes are glassy, and she shivers every few seconds.
“Rhett,” she whispers. I cup her face, wiping a tear that falls. She sucks in a gasp and then collapses into me. “I feel… I can’t…”
“Hey, I know. I know.” I pull her into my chest, lifting her with an arm around her waist. Her knees bracket my hips, and she tucks her lips against the crook of my shoulder, a few tears sliding onto my skin. “Come eat, baby girl. It’ll help.”
I carry her to the tiny kitchen and set her on a bare portion of counter, one hand on her knee while I grab the medicine, a yogurt drink from her fridge, and the water bottle beside the sink. She wordlessly opens her mouth and takes the medicine, swallowing it dry before sipping the water. Her hands shake as she takes the yogurt, but she doesn’t object to eating it. Her scent builds as the moments stretch on, gaining that desperate edge that has my mind scrambling while my body tries to take control.
“Warm,” she whispers, trying to rub her cheek against me.
“Finish your drink, baby girl,” I say, threading it with an Alpha bark.
She shivers, and her lips tremble, but she does, quickly finishing the yogurt and setting it on the counter beside her. Her eyes are wholly unfocused, her hands scratching at my stomach, her knees squeezing my hips and trying to pull me closer to her. But it’s not until she’s taken another few drinks of the water that I ease her to the edge of the counter and sink into her, capturing her gasp with my lips.
Chapter Twenty-Five
PAXTON
“They’ve requested James,” the employee who works under Marilyn says, her voice timid.
There’s a collective groan of relief, and the rest of the guys start getting their bags together to get on the first bus to the airport. I ease to my feet and follow the woman, rolling my shoulders to try and calm the hell down. The room of reporters shuffles restlessly as I make my way to the small seat beside Ashton. He finishes answering the question someone had asked while waiting to see who the second player sent out tonight would be. No one says anything as I carefully sit down, keeping my left hand tucked in the pocket of my slacks. I’ve kept it covered with a bandage since coming back to myself at Ashton’s place last night, explaining it away as a cut when a few of the guys asked about it, but it’s not a question I want asked while being actively recorded.
When the questions start, so do all the cameras. It’s typical and something I’ve slowly grown accustomed to over the last nine years of playing in the league. Tonight it only sets my teethon edge. It doesn’t help that I can feel Billie’s happiness like a bright spot under my sternum, and it makes me want to puke.
I answer everything as calmly as I can manage, deflecting praise back onto the other guys on the team, emphasizing how we’re really clicking not just as a third line but as an entire unit and that there’s no one savior in our dynamic. We’re all pulling the weight of turning the rough start to the season into a possible shot at the playoffs. I fall into the rhythm of it all, and tension eases away from my shoulders.
And then the first question about the last twenty-four hours hits.
“You and your brother were both healthy scratches last night,” a middle-aged man in the front row says. “Are you able to tell us why you’re back and he is not?”
Ashton stiffens beside me, his scent slowly bleeding out of him in warning. One of the reporters nearest us raises an eyebrow, her gaze flashing between us, clearly understanding the undertone to Ashton’s woodsy scent. I lean my elbow on the table and run my hand over my beard that’s more unkempt than typical.
“I’m not able to at this time,” I offer.
The reporter’s eyes are disappointed but not overly surprised by my answer.
