Page 66 of How Much For A Broken Heart?

But none of that mattered, as the rest of the Sierra team picked themselves up and dusted themselves off.

“Everyone’s okay,” August reassured me. “Jesus, Ryder… fuck… Medic? Who…” He shook me. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“Truck,” I whispered, my vision spotty. So much for the heroic Army Ranger who let someone get the jump on him. Fuck. What kind of a wingman gets taken down like that?

“The good guys headed off the first truck—drugs and arms.” He was smiling at me—I think he was smiling. Or was that grimacing? Fuck, I hurt. “Someone tell me we have a fucking medic!”

I should tell him how I felt, just in case. I couldn’t keep it inside. “I love you,” I forced out, coughing, him gripping me harder, leaning down to put his mouth next to my ear.

“Stop talking,” he ordered, but I had to get this out.

With every bit of energy I had, I tried to grip him back. “I. Love. You.”

Zach slid in next to us, Luca crouching next to me holding my shoulder, talking to me, telling me it was all good.

Reassuring August that I was going to be fine?

Of course, I was okay—I was with August, the bad guy was dead, and I was alive.

Had I told him I loved him? Had I given him those words, so he knew how I felt?

I couldn’t remember.

* * *

The world dipped and heaved, a flash of blue sky, a glimpse of the ground, and through it all, August held my hand and kept talking.

It was fucking annoying—a whole verbal onslaught about me staying with him, and how I couldn’t go anywhere, and how Annie needed to meet me, and yeah, yeah, it was all good, but the blood… and the dizziness… and people poking at me.

* * *

“It’s all good, August.”

“Not going anywhere,” August snarled. Why was he so angry?

“You’re really going to stand there and sew him up.”

“If I fucking have to.”

I was floating—was I on the good stuff? This was marshmallow-soft, and as I closed my eyes, I could hear him shouting that he wasn’t going anywhere, and through all of it, he was holding my hand.

* * *

I drifted back to consciousness, my senses gradually returning, and I was still floating on a marshmallow cloud, the pain meds working their magic to numb whatever Amos had done to me. Blinking my eyes open, I squinted at the soft, diffused light in the room.

And then I saw him—August, sitting by my bedside, his gaze focused on a book in his hands as he read out loud.

“… outnumbered sir. Aye, T’would be good to move the Lady Cameron to—oh you’re awake.” He’d stopped reading, and I attempted to make sense of the romance novel cover featuring a half-naked man in a kilt, a swooning woman draped over one arm and a broadsword in the other, before shifting my gaze to August.

“Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” he murmured, setting the book aside.

“What in God’s name are you reading to me?” I asked, my voice rough.

He leaned closer, helping me with a drink, then flashing the cover. “The Highland Laird’s Fiery Temptress. Just a little romance to lift your spirits,” he replied with a smirk.

I couldn’t help but smile back, despite the clouds. “What happened to Reacher?”

He rolled his eyes at that. “Reacher does all this improbable stuff,” he announced, then thumbed at his chest. “Anyway, you don’t need him. He’s six-five, and everyone knows good things come in small packages.”

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