Were they even now looking for her? My heart lurches into my throat at the idea of her being in danger.
Also, I’m going to kill Aiden for dropping me in the middle of mafia disputes. And yet, I’ve known him for more than three decades and there’s no way he would get involved in something like this just for money. Much less throw me into the deep end.
“You don’t have to look so shocked. I can fend for myself,” she says, drawing my attention back to her. Her lower lip wobbles as I continue to stare at her and she bites down on the tender flesh again.
She’s had a hell of a day.
She doesn’t know if her brother’s safe.
She’s stuck with a stranger like me—who’s already injected her with a tranq. I have no doubt what a scary bastard I am.
On top of all of it, I told her that I didn’t want her here. That I didn’t want to baby-sit her, to be precise.
She fought back even though she was wounded. In a way that makes my chest do something that I don't have a name for.
This is why I don't do people. Much less fragile, innocent, beautiful women who need sweet words and soft gestures. Who make me feel like an inadequate asshole.
I'm a grumpy bastard with the social skills of a toddler and zero filter between my brain and my mouth.
She's been in my cabin for less than ten minutes and I've already managed to hit every bruise she has. Without even meaning to.
I drag a hand over my face and that's when I see it. The pink stain on the wedding dress. "You're bleeding."
She looks down.
Her knees and one elbow are scraped raw, angry red against her pale skin—souvenirs from hitting the concrete when she made a run for it outside the church.
"I'm fine," she says immediately, pulling her dress down. It’s useless. One layer of it ripped from the back to all the way around, leaving one bare thigh. “I’ll clean them in the shower.”
"Sit." I jerk my chin at the armchair by the fireplace.
"I said I'm?—"
“Humor me, Princess.Please,” I bite out.
The word tastes like sawdust on my tongue but works like magic. It’s a basic social tenet, yes, but I have a feeling this woman operates on a completely different spectrum. She could have been put on the planet to spread love and kindness and laughter and joy. It practically radiates from her.
Her mutinous expression lingers but she sits. Muttering something under her breath that I'm fairly certain questions my parentage.
I swallow down the chuckle that wants to rise up, pull the first-aid kit from the kitchen cabinet and cross back to her. For a second, my steps stall.
In the tattered wedding dress, she looks small and fragile and painfully beautiful. Worse, she looks like she belongs there.
Here, in my cabin. Under my protection.
No, she doesn’t, I counter the pathetic voice inside my head. Maybe Aiden was right that no man should go months without seeing another human being. Clearly, I’m starved for company.
“If I’m going to stay at your cabin for a few days, I should know your name,” she says.
“Should you though?” I say, feeling strangely wary about hearing my name on her lips.
She blinks but recovers fast. “How else will I make sure my brother tips you extra?”
So that’s how we’re going to play it—pretend that I’m her glorified bodyguard/watchdog for the next few days. Surprisingly, it sits okay with me. Maybe because it turns this whole thing into a transaction. It’s the only thing I can understand.
And yet, there’s also a part of me that hates what I have turned into. That I can’t offer words of comfort to a distressedwoman. That I’m wary of a woman half my size with double the courage I have.
She watches me with those big eyes as I lower myself onto one knee in front of her, my bad hip grinding in protest. I ignore it. That jasmine scent of her claws its way under my skin in two breaths. It’s deeper and richer than at the church, infused with her sweat.
