Saint barely throws a glance at me over his shoulder before he storms off. Him and a handful of the guys leave.
I’m left in a whirlwind of desires and contradictions. I make myself wait, sinking lower into the chair in Saint’s office. If I move, I’m going to rush right to her.
I clench my hands and release them. Again and again. Until the count of a hundred and sixty-five, then I launch myself out of the chair.
My hand runs through my hair, and I spin back at the door before barreling through it.
More men are clearing out, and I remind myself to breathe. I don’t even care if I get to touch her or not. I just want to be in the same room as her without feeling guilty about it.
Diverting myself in the kitchen, I collect an easy breakfast: eggs, sausage, toast, fruit, coffee…
It’s an easy excuse to cover why I’m going down to Saint’s room. A knock elicits ruffling on the other side, and the image of her sliding out from those sheets zaps through me.
“Coming,” Wren calls softly, like I’ve woken her up. I probably have.
The lock pops, and the door opens to reveal her in Saint’s t-shirt. Her eyes wide as she takes me in and the tray I have for her. “Is that for me?”
“It is.” My voice is more gruff than I intended.
She pulls the door open wider to let me in. “Um, let me just put on some shorts.”
It’s been a couple of days, and she’s still wearing those shorts that are so small, they’re almost underwear on her, but they’re better than nothing. Better than no underwear. Knowing she’s bare underneath there is too tempting otherwise.
My brain needs a kick to start going again, and I follow her inside, closing the door behind me.
Wren meets me back at the bed, curling her legs under her as she peers up at me. “What’s happening?”
Startled by the direct question, I tilt my head to take her in as she bites through a strawberry. Fuck, my dick’s getting hard again.
I swallow back my lust. “Saint and a small crew headed out. That’s about all I can tell you.”
Her small huff is adorable, blowing some of the stray hair from her forehead. It falls back, and I desperately want to tuck it behind her ear, but I keep my hands to myself. It’s difficult.
“I thought I was iced out at home, but this place takes it to another level.” Wren stabs a sausage with her fork and nibbles on it like she’s shy to eat in front of me.
I hang on the new information, ready to grab and tug at it to see how much I can get. “What was it like at home?”
She eyes me. Survival has taught her to be suspicious. To read a room. Read people. She’s doing it to me now. “It was quiet. Most of the time.”
Her blue and gold eyes stare into mine, and I have a feeling I know what it’s going to take to give me more. “Quiet untila storm blows in and has you ducking for cover, adrenaline dumping, senses on high alert so you can survive it?”
Wren stops chewing, eyes focused down for a beat until they shoot up to look into mine. “Something like that.”
I know what that’s like more than anyone. I’ve seen it firsthand, secondhand, thirdhand…more times than I can count. “It started when I was five. Or at least, that’s when I remember it starting. You know, our hippocampus doesn’t connect right away. Memories aren’t permanent.”
I shake my head. It’s always hard not to spiral out into medical facts when I think of home.
Wren’s features soften, eyes round as she reaches for my hand. Her fingers are chilly as she grips mine. A gentle reassurance. One I’ve deployed so many times.
“Long story short, my dad was a drunk. And when he was drunk, he liked to knock my mom around.”
After a beat of silence, she supplies the rest of the story for me. “Until one day, you’re old enough and big enough to step in and stop them.”
My laugh is humorless. “Yeah. And I didn’t win that first time. Or the second. Or the third.”
“That’s why you became a doctor?”
My thumb runs over her knuckles, reminding me of just how much I miss the simple pleasures of touching someone like this, the way sparks dance up my arm at the small contact.
