“You were.”
“I can take it. We all can.”
She meets my eyes.
“So can I.”
That almost makes me smile.
Finn mutters from the doorway, “You’re both bleeding. This is not the bonding moment we wanted.”
Neither of us answers him.
I wrap the gauze around her finger slowly, and it matters more than the shattered window.
Her breathing evens out as I work.
Mine doesn’t.
“You’re bleeding too,” she says softly.
I glance down. My knuckles have opened up. Blood mixed with whiskey and glass dust. “It’s nothing.”
“You matter too,” she says.
My throat tightens.
She dabs antiseptic onto my skin, and I don’t flinch, even though it burns.
Because the way she’s looking at me?
That burns worse.
My hand shifts from hers to her waist without thinking. Ryder sees it. He doesn’t react.
“You’re safe,” I tell her.
It’s not a promise I make lightly.
She searches my face, testing it.
“You don’t know that,” she whispers.
I lean closer, close enough that she can feel the steadiness in me.
“I do.”
Because if he wants to escalate?
Fine.
If he wants to throw glass?
Fine.
He doesn’t get to touch her. We won’t allow it.
By noon, the window’s boarded, stronger than what was there before.
