My eyes sting. “I’m fine. It’s just…everything I did, Kai. Things I said. The people I upset.”
He tugs me to him, and I fall against this chest. “You’re going to be alright, Isla. I promise.”
His palm is strong against my back, heat seeping through my clothes.
And just like I was when I was in the clubhouse, I’m making a choice that isn’t good for me or those around me by staying.
15
JACKAL
Garrett groans as he settles himself deeper into the pillows, one arm draped across his ribs, the way he always does when he’s trying to convince me he isn’t hurting. It’s not the first time either of us have come off our bikes, but it’s the first time the injuries have been so severe and painful.
And I would give everything I am to carry some of it for him.
His eyes are half-closed, wetness clinging to his eyelashes. I have no idea if they’re just watering with pain, he’s sweating, or he’s crying.
None of the answers make me feel any better. Especially since I just left Isla downstairs looking equally destroyed but muttering about keeping her hands busy by making us some dinner, though I don’t feel like I can eat. My stomach feels raw.
From the accident. And from holding on to Isla more intimately than a monogamous man should.
I sit on the edge of the bed, holding his hand, and study him.
He’s here.
Breathing.
Alive.
And that feels like a miracle.
My heartbeat is a stampede behind my ribs. A panic I’ve yet to wrangle back into a box. It blooms every time I see him wince.
The hammering has stopped, and everyone except Isla has left.
“You’re hovering,” Garrett says, his eyes blinking open again, his voice rough with pain and exhaustion.
“You nearly died. I’m certain it’s okay to be grateful for the face I nearly lost.”
He lifts a brow, unimpressed. “I spun out.”
I huff in exasperation. “You slid forty feet. No, not slid—you fucking bounced and spun.”
“And stopped without hitting the wall. Small mercies and all that.”
My breath stutters, a laugh and sob escaping at the same time. “I hate you.”
Gently, he reaches around the back of my neck and tugs me to him. I rest my forehead on him gently. “No. You don’t.”
I press my lips to his chest. “No. I don’t.”
His fingers stroke my neck. The gentlest touch he’s capable of right now. While he’s all prickly edges and blunt honesty out in the world, I love moments like this, when he’s tender with me.
“You good?” he murmurs.
“No,” I say, the word leaking out before I have the chance to catch it. “I thought that was it. The end of us before we even got to properly enjoy our life together.”
I lift my head so I can see him, and he’s watching me in the quiet and impossibly perceptive way only he can. There’s a silence between us, but as usual, he doesn’t rush to fill it, leaving space for me to tell him the truth before I suffocate.
