Thankfully, I’ve never had my nerves fried before. The worst of the carnage in Syria that chewed up other guys just left me numb. There are also days when I wonder if icy, detached calmismy trauma.
“Hey.” I smooth a hand down her back, warming her. “Breathe for me. It’s okay. He’s not coming back.”
She gulps air so fast she coughs, her breath rattling. It’s like feeling years of pent-up emotion working its way out.
“You ... you shouldn’t have butted in,” she whispers. “Not with him.”
Seriously?
That’s where she’s going with this?
Call me an asshole, but when any dude threatens a woman at her house, I’m not the type to stand there and watch like I’m at a damn petting zoo.
“You asked him to leave. He didn’t. What choice did I have?”
“I had it under control, Brady.” Her voice hardens, but I can sense the doubt.
“You did the best you could. I never doubted that. But I saw the way he got up in your face. You needed a hand, Lena.”
My gaze sweeps around her small house, taking it in. It’s a small place in an old working-class neighborhood. A cheap fixer-upper from the 1950s or maybe something she inherited. The kind of home that’s no longer cheap at all in a city that seems like it’s racing to break new records for eye-popping prices.
It’s cozy and clean enough, though. Also, it smells like her—that subtle apple-blossom scent mixed with spitfire that’s driving me mad.
“I hate this.Hate it.I don’t cry like this, I swear.” She sniffs loudly, wiping a shaky hand across her face.
Anyone else would say she looks like hell, but to me, all I see is heaven.
Where the fuck is my mind?
If Nancy ever cried—and I’m not certain she ever does for good reason—you can bet she rehearsed being a pretty crier.
Lena keeps trembling.
Her appearance is obviously the last thing on her mind. Not with this fountain of grief overflowing. But somehow, it just makes her more appealing—seeing her so vulnerable.
“Here.” I wipe her cheeks with my cuffs. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure. Now try telling me in a way I might believe.”
She gives me a feeble laugh, which still feels like a victory.
“Why are you here?” she whispers.
“I came to meet you. Remember?”
Her face blanks. “I really don’t. What is it today?”
“We have plans tomorrow. I wanted to discuss them and avoid any surprises.” And honestly, it’s getting harder than it should be for a single day to slip by without seeing her.
That’s not something I’ll be saying to her face anytime soon, no.
It’s still a harsh fact I don’t want to admit.
But seeing her like this, raw and helpless, when I’ve seen how fiercely she defends herself strikes fire in my blood.
I don’t want to put a name on it, or even think too hard.
