Page 75 of Under Arthur’s Protection

My hands flew up to cover my eyes. I couldn’t cry in front of him again. Not again. He was going to think I⁠—

His big arms enveloped me, and he crushed me against his chest. “You’re okay, Gwen.”

I let my hands slip down from my face and tucked them under his jacket, wrapping my arms around him. My forehead pressed into his shoulder, and I gave up. I let the tears come.

His breathing was slow, while mine came in hiccups that hurt. One of his hands rested in the middle of my back, and the other came up to my head. His heartbeat was the steadiest thing in the world, and it made me feel… what? Protected? Calm?

Safe. I felt safe inside his arms.

If only this were more than a bodyguard trying to settle his hysterical client. Considering I wasn’t paying, I could almost convince myself there was more to it. Like maybe he cared. Like he was nothing more than a man comforting a woman who was precious to him.

As long as I cried, he’d keep holding me, and I could keep pretending.

I turned my head, resting my cheek against the hollow beneath his collarbone, and his thumb moved against my head. One small stroke, but my whole body reacted. Instead of the tears stealing my breath, it was my sudden, overwhelming awareness of the muscles underneath his shirt. Muscles that my breasts—my breasts!—were pressed against.

He’s your bodyguard, Gwen. Don’t go there.

But I was already there. So there.

Memories of my dream at Sam and Antonio’s came back to me. Of Arthur’s hands on me, like they were on me now. Of my lips on his bare chest. I was so close.

He stepped back suddenly, gaze heading to the floor. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have⁠—”

“Don’t.” Don’t what, Gwen? Don’t apologize? Or don’t stop holding you? Rubbing your back and your head? “It helped.”

“I mean…” He held up his right arm. “I’m getting blood on you.”

The blood. The cut.

The knife.

‘Stop or she’s dead.’

Be useful, Gwen.

“I’m going to find a first aid kit,” I blurted, hurrying past him before I could say anything stupid. The walls blurred as I blinked away my remaining tears.

God, his arms. The heat of his body. The smell.

Sure, the scent of dirt and oil clung to him from when he’d crawled under the car. And a whiff of blood and body odor from when he’d literally saved my life. But under it all was the sandalwood, warm and clean and inviting.

I found a kit under the bathroom sink and riffled through it. Antiseptic, gauze pads, medical tape, and scissors. Everything I needed. Before I left, I dared to look at myself in the mirror. Dirt and more than a bit of Arthur’s blood decorated my shirt, especially at the sleeve hem where I’d put pressure on a wound well past needing it. My hair was a disaster, and my eyes were more bloodshot than I’d ever seen them.

What a sight I was.

I blew my nose and splashed some water on my face—which did nothing but get me wet. Taking care of Arthur might push aside some of the panic and worry. If I could just feel normal for a minute, maybe that would fix everything.

Back in the kitchen, Arthur was at the sink, running water over his forearm. His jacket was draped over one of the chairs, and he’d rolled the sleeve above the wound. Under the direct light, the torn skin was angry and raw. He tore off a paper towel and gently dried the area around the edges.

I set the kit on the table and pulled out one of the wooden chairs. “Sit down.”

“I can handle this.”

“I know you can.” I opened the kit and laid out what I needed. “Sit down anyway? Please?”

He frowned at me, then pretended to be a cooperative patient and sat.

I took the other chair and pulled it closer. He rested his forearm on the wooden table, and I leaned over it. “Relax.”