“Ry. You still alive, man?”
“Debatable.”
“Where this time?”
“Left side of my face.”
I run my hand over the jagged scar that runs from my brow all the way to the corner of my mouth.
“Ryker?” Cool fingers curl over my arm, and I whirl around and grab Wren’s wrist.
“Don’teversneak up on me,” I growl before I register the fear in her eyes. Neither of us breathe, and I blink hard. Her bruises peek out from under my fingers.
Step away, you fucking ape. You’re not back there, and she’s not the enemy.
“Shit. Wren…”
“Let go.” Her voice is barely a whisper, but she doesn’t back down. “You were talking to yourself.” I stare at her, trying to remember what the hell I might have been saying, and her brows furrow. “You sounded…angry.”
Her sweet scent pulls me closer, and I fight to relax my fingers, cupping her forearm so I can bring her wrist to my lips and ghost a kiss over the bruises. “How bad?”
“F-fine,” she whispers as she meets my gaze, confusion darkening her jade green eyes.
I search her face for the truth, finding it in the way she ducks her head. “Wren.”
“Hurts less than my cheek.”
Her hair covers most of the swelling around her eye, and I brush the auburn curls away. “I should have been faster.”
“This isn’t your fault,” she says. “If it’s anyone’s fault…it’s mine.”
“No, sweetheart. No.” Leaning down, I trace her jaw with the backs of my knuckles. Wren tips her head up, her eyes fluttering closed, and I feather a kiss to her lips. She tastes like honey, and fear tightens in my gut. I want more, and that’s a dangerous game I can’t play. Because she’s the one who’ll lose.
Two knocks, followed by three more force us apart. “Dax,” I say when she darts behind me. “Maybe now we’ll get some answers.”
* * *
Shovinga bag in my general direction as he crosses the threshold, Dax tests the area in front of him with his cane. “Next time you need supplies after midnight, do what I usually do. Call someone who can see.”
“James Joyce on a pogo-stick. Both of you to your separate corners. Now,” Wren says as we both swivel our heads in her general direction.
“James Joyce on a pogo-stick? Where do you come up with this shit?” I ask.
She takes Dax’s arm and leads him across the room. “Desk. Right in front of you.” Guiding his hand to the back of the office chair, she glares at me. “I told you. My mom was a teacher for years. At a Catholic school. Some things stick.”
I dig into the plastic pharmacy bag and come away with the ACE bandage. “Let me see your wrist, sweetheart.”
“In a minute.” Wren slings the messenger bag over her shoulder and disappears into the bathroom, leaving a trail of honeysuckle behind.
“Sweetheart?” Dax asks, arching a brow. “Last I checked, Ryker McCabe didn’t do relationships. Any relationships.”
“The girl’s been through some shit. It slipped out.”
Half a dozen times.
“I’m not a girl,” she snaps from behind the bathroom door. “And I can hear every word.”
For a few seconds, I don’t recognize the sound filling the room, until I look over at Dax to see him laughing. Fuck. I haven’t seen him laugh since…before Hell.
