"Which one is yours?"
He gestured with his chin toward the sleek black sedan parked three spaces down. The one I'd seen outside my apartment. Outside the bookstore. Following me through half my life without my permission.
Now I was climbing into the driver's seat.
The interior smelled like him—cedar and something darker, expensive leather and the faint ghost of his cologne. The seat was positioned too far back; the mirrors angled wrong, everything built for someone larger and more dangerous than me.
I adjusted quickly, hands steadier than they had any right to be.
Gideon folded himself into the passenger seat without complaint. Cradled his broken hand against his chest like something precious and ruined all at once. Blood spotted his shirt. His breathing came shallow, controlled, like he was holding pain at bay through sheer will.
I started the engine.
The hospital was fifteen minutes away if I pushed the speed limit. Ten if I ignored it entirely.
My foot pressed down hard on the accelerator.
Gideon's eyes closed.
Not in fear—in trust.
And somehow that destroyed me more than anything else tonight.
I risked a glance at him.
His face had gone pale beneath the streetlights flashing past, jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping beneath the skin. Sweat beaded at his temple.
"You need a doctor," I repeated, voice cracking on the last word.
"No." Flat. Final. Like the discussion was already over.
"Gideon—those fingers are broken. Badly. What if?—"
"Belle." He cut me off with my name, soft and dangerous. "Drive home."
Home. Like his house was mine. Like I belonged there.
My chest tightened for reasons I refused to examine.
"This is insane. You could lose function. You could—" I stopped. The words lodged in my throat because I suddenly understood what he wasn't saying.
Hockey.
His career.
If a doctor filed reports, if the league found out he'd gotten into a fight off-ice, if anyone discovered he'd broken his own hand beating men bloody over a woman he'd blackmailed into his bed?—
The consequences would end him.
He watched me work through it. Watched understanding dawn across my face.
"Ice," he said quietly. "A splint. That's all I need."
"Are you serious?" The question came out sharp, disbelieving.
Something flickered in his expression. Dark. Old. Painful in ways that had nothing to do with broken bones.
"I've had worse."
