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His gaze shifts to mine and I think he might argue. Instead, he just looks tired. “Okay.”
Yeah, baby. That’s what I thought.
Half an hour later, we’re outside, the evening air cool against my skin as Rowan narrows his eyes at the bike.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’m injured.”
“Exactly. I’m not going to race through the city, mouse. Relax.”
His expression suggests he hates my logic. Unfortunately, it remains flawless.
Carefully, I guide him onto the back of the bike before climbing on in front of him, waiting while he settles himself and finally slides his arms around my waist. Not because he’s afraid, but because every movement still hurts. Because healing is ugly, and sometimes letting someone hold you is easier than pretending you’re fine.
I squeeze his hands lightly. “Ready, mouse?”
His forehead settles between my shoulder blades. I feel it even through the jacket. “Take me home.”
Something deep inside me finally unclenches as the engine comes alive beneath us and the city lights slide past.
And for the first time in a very long time, it doesn’t feel like I’m taking Rowan somewhere.
It feels like I’m taking him home.
34
ROWAN
The bike rolls to a stop on the gravel driveway. I ease off the back seat, steady myself against the frame, and straighten. Pain flares through my hands and ribs.
“You’re limping,” Ciaran grunts after he’s killed the engine. He dismounts, steps into my space, and eases an arm around my waist before I can protest.
“The vibration from the bike jostled me, but I’m fine.” I reach for the door handle, but Ciaran catches my hand before I can open it.
“You are not walking up those stairs alone.”
Before I can argue, he pushes the door open and steers me inside. The front door has barely closed behind us when Damaris’s voice drifts from deeper inside the house.
“When did he get here?”
“Apparently before us,” Ciaran mutters.
We pass the kitchen. My best friend is perched on a stool with a mug in his hands while Lucan hovers nearby, one tattooed hand wrapped around his multi-slate. His gaze drags over me from head to toe the moment we step inside.
“He’s limping.”
“I’m standing right here,” I call.
“Mm.” Unconvinced, Ciaran steers me toward the stairs despite my annoyance.
“I can manage the stairs,” I protest, but the third step jars my ribs.
“For fuck’s sake,” Ciaran mutters, ushering me upstairs. “Not a damn word.”
The moment the bedroom door closes behind us, the tension drains from my shoulders. Damaris is downstairs. Lucan is prowling around the house somewhere. Rafe is lurking in a corner looking dangerous, while Marius is making the entire mansion look prettier than it has any right to.
