“3rd Degree Burns”
“Never Good Enough”
“Armageddon”
“Numb to Everything”
“Dead Butterflies”
Four Weeks Later
“Your boudoir awaits, mi’Lass,” I say, tongue in cheek, while carrying Briella into my cabin.
“You can put me down,” she mutters as soon as I’ve stepped in the entryway, tone firm. Bit annoyed if I’m wagering. Don’t know if she’ll ever lose that with me.
She’s been carrying some bitterness since the splint came off. Can’t blame her. Jude was right about the limp, the bloody bloke.
“Sure?” I ask, my beard brushing the top of her forehead as I eye her leg.
She knows I’m thinking of it, but I don’t mention it. Not even to let her know how well she’s doing.
Doc is still hoping it’s soft tissue damage, but he’s helped her every day with exercises to strengthen her muscles, get her back into her routine. Leaves her pretty sore and grumpy.
Until then, it’s been daily worship in between all the healing. Revolving beds.
My goddamn turn.
When she nods, I set her down and give her a bit o’ space while I move about the cabin, turning on the lanterns, then get the pipe stove fireplace going. Already prepped it when Raphael informed me she’d be with me tonight.
“It’s clean,” she remarks as I add another log to the wood fire.
“Guess ye got me into a bit o’ a routine. I like making the place clean when I know ye will be here.”
She doesn’t smile. Shite. I’d settle for her crazy ear-biting over this self-pity. Loathing there, too. She won’t look at me, jaw set tight, like the sight of me makes her sick. Maybe it does.
I keep a keen eye on her as she puts more pressure on her good leg and takes small steps, limping toward the couch opposite the fireplace.
She’s been takin’ it easy today—doctor’s orders, though she fought Jude tooth and nail. After our first heavy snow, Briella begged to go outside and play. So, we all bundled up for her, but she overdid it yesterday. All that semi-running ‘round the cabins, chucking snowballs like a little savage.
Jude made sure she rested today, all curled up in Vincent’s wool blankets with the Doc massaging and exercising her leg.
So, I’m not surprised she’s in a bad mood.
But she’s mighty pretty in the chunky, long sweater, heavy-knit wool from Vincent. Damn near swallows her. Soft gray that brings out her hair—messy knot of curls, a few purple strands falling along her cheeks, she keeps blowing away with a huff.
Bare legs and big sleepy eyes, softer than fresh-fallen snow. Pretty as Christmas morning, and mine to keep tonight.
Mighty fuckin’ dangerous, how she doesn’t even try.
Closing the fireplace, I rise and remove my suspenders, start unbuttoning my black collared shirt. Out of the corner of my eye, she blushes, turning away, hoping I didn’t notice.
After I chuck my shirt into the corner laundry basket, I go for my trousers, only to pause when she doubles over on the couch, lowers her chin, and catches her head in her hands. A heavy sigh. “Do we really have to do this? It’s cold.”
“Come to big Red. I’ll warm ye up. And promise to be a gentleman.” When she lifts her chin, I wink and drop my trousers, freeing myself. “Unless ye want the devil.” Shameless that I’m hard. Nothing she hasn’t seen.
I make my way to her, reach down and take her hand, helping her to her feet, noting her wince.
“Are you going to handcuff me again?” she wonders, peering at the bed.
