“Every damn day.” He doesn’t look up. “Brothers here get reckless. Fights. Falls. Gunshot wounds once or twice. Keeps me busy.”
“Gunshot wounds?”
He ties off the last stitch. “Yeah. We protect our own.”
Something in his tone makes me believe it.
He wraps my ankle next, firm but not too tight, then tapes my ribs. Every touch feels professional, but there’s an undercurrent I can’t ignore. The way his fingers linger a second longer than necessary on my skin. The way his gaze flicks to my face more often than it should.
When he finishes he sits back on his heels. “You need a shower. Hot water will help the shaking. I’ll find you something to wear.”
I glance down at my blood-streaked jeans. “I don’t want to ruin your stuff.”
“You won’t.” He stands and offers his hand. “Come on.”
I take it. His palm is warm and rough. He pulls me up slowly, careful of my ribs and ankle. I limp after him down a short hallway. The bathroom is small but spotless. White tile. Fluffy navy towels. He turns on the shower, tests the temperature, then looks at me.
“Door locks. I’ll be right outside. Yell if you fall.”
I nod. He steps out and closes the door softly.
Hot water hits my skin like heaven. I stand half under the spray half out of it until my fingers prune and the last of the cold leaves my bones. Bruises bloom across my side in ugly shades of purple and green. The stitches on my arm look neat and professional. I dry off and pull on the clothes he left on the counter: his gray sweatpants cinched tight at the waist, his black T-shirt that hangs to mid-thigh on me. It smells like him. Cedar. Clean soap. Something that makes my pulse kick.
When I step out he’s waiting in the hallway, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. His eyes darken when he sees me in his clothes.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“Like a new person.” I try to smile. It wobbles. “Thank you. For everything.”
He pushes off the wall. “You’re not out of the woods yet. You men mentioned people are after you. I’m sure they’re still looking. You need to tell me who they are. Why they want you dead?”
My stomach drops. “I can’t. Not tonight. I just need… sleep.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then nods once. “Bedroom’s through there. Only one bed. I’ll take the couch.”
I shake my head. “You’ve already done too much. I’ll take the couch.”
“Not happening.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “You’re hurt. You need rest. I need to keep an eye on you in case the ankle swells more or you spike a fever. Bed. Now.”
I’m too tired to fight. I limp into the bedroom. King bed. Navy sheets. Simple. Masculine. Safe.
I crawl under the covers. He just stands there, watching me. I feel safe under his stare.
“Eli?” I whisper into the dark.
“Yeah?”
“I’m scared.”
He nods. “I know. But you’re here now. Nothing gets through me. Nothing gets to you. Sleep, Daisy. I’ve got you.”
His voice wraps around me like a blanket. Steady. Certain. I close my eyes and let exhaustion pull me under.
The last thing I feel before sleep claims me is his hand brushing hair from my forehead. Just once. Gentle. Protective.
And for the first time in weeks I believe I might actually survive the night.
TWO
