Page 51

Beck gives me an amused look. “Cam, I’m a doctor.”

“I can pee on my own, doctor,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

He sighs dramatically but backs toward the door. “Fine. But I’ll be right outside. Yell if you need me.”

The second the door clicks shut, I carefully tug down my panties, lift the hem of the soft blue dress Finn bought me, and start to lower myself.

Oh shit.

Pain shoots through my core like fire. My abs scream. The incision pulls. The deep bruises from getting hit by a literal car make themselves known with a vengeance.

When this is over, I silently vow, I’m getting in the best shape of my life. I’ll be so fit and so tough I could get hit by three cars and bounce right back up like it’s nothing.

I finish, clean up, and try to stand.

Fuck.

This is not working. I sigh, defeated, and holler, “Beck!”

Beck comes in a minute later wearing that cocky-as-hell smile that, in any other situation, I would absolutely be into. Right now? I kind of want to punch it off his face. He knows it too. And he doesn’t care one bit. In fact, he seems to love that I need him right now.

“You rang, sugar?” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe like he’s posing for a calendar.

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “I need some help standing.”

His expression shifts instantly into professional mode. He crosses the room and carefully slides an arm around my back, the other supporting me under my arm as he helps me up. He’s as gentle as he was the first time, taking almost all of my weight so I don’t have to use my core. I still hiss in pain, but it’s a lot more bearable than doing it alone.

Once I’m steady on my feet, the flirt comes roaring back. He waggles his eyebrows. “Want me to wipe you too?”

I smack his arm. Hard. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

His laugh is warm, but doesn’t push it.

My panties choose that exact moment to slide from my knees to the floor and pool around my ankles. Whatever. One less thing to worry about next time. I step out of them and leave them on the floor.

Beck’s eyes drop to the discarded fabric pooled on the tile, and his grin turns wicked. “I’ll come back for those once I get you back in bed.”

I roll my eyes again. “You can have every pair I own if it means I stop hurting this much.”

His expression softens. He gently squeezes my hip where his hand is supporting me. “If I could take away this pain, I would,” he says, suddenly serious. “I hate that you’re hurting, Cammie.”

The sincerity hits me square in the chest. Being scent-matched is more than attraction. There’s this instant, bone-deep connection humming between us. It’s undeniable and utterly insane, when you think about it logically. I barely know him. But my omega doesn’t care about logic.

As he’s carefully helping me shuffle back toward the bed, the door opens. Piers walks in, shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of navy joggers slung low on his hips. His body is way more cut than I expected. Lean, powerful muscle, broad shoulders, and that V-cut that disappears into his waistband. Holy fuck. These men are going to make sitting on my ass and healing very, very difficult.

He’s carrying a tray with a bowl of soup, a perfectly grilled cheese sandwich, and a glass that looks suspiciously like my favorite grapefruit soda.

“You hungry, sunshine?” he asks, those dark eyes locking onto mine.

His dark amber and sea salt scent rolls into the room ahead of him and my omega does some enthusiastic somersaults in my chest before I can tell her to behave. I keep my face neutral and focus on the tray.

Beck carefully helps me back into bed, one arm around my back as he eases me down. He stacks what feels like half the pillows in the room behind me until I’m propped up in a mostly comfortable sitting position.

“There we go,” he murmurs, adjusting one last pillow. “Better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Beck steps back from the bed giving Piers room to set the tray on the side table. That’s when my eyes catch on something I hadn’t noticed when he walked in—a tattoo low on his ribs, inked in clean, elegant script.