Page 146 of Snared Rider

I laugh, but it’s more a nervous hiccough. He’s here. He’s still breathing. I try to focus on that because when my mind wanders I start thinking horrible things.

I focus on my hands in my lap and swallow hard. “I thought you were going to die when I saw all that blood.”

His fingers move across the bed and wrap around my wrist, his thumb sweeping over my skin. The gesture is reassuring and I love the feel of his hand on me.

“Beth, I meant it when I said I’m not going anywhere.” He raises a hand to wipe the tear wending down my cheek away. “Please, love, don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying.”

“The tears suggest otherwise.”

I take a shaky breath. “They’re happy tears.”

“They don’t look happy.”

“Well, they are.”

He gives me a soft look. “Come lie with me.”

I stare at him and at the tiny slither of space on the edge of the trolley in front of him. Then I frown.

“Logan, no.”

“Beth.” He says my name in a voice that suggests arguing with him is not a good idea, but I argue anyway.

“I’m not getting on the bed with you.”

“Get over here.” His demanding voice is sexy as sin, and my toes curl hearing it. But his request is batshit ridiculous.

I stare helplessly at him. “I won’t fit and even if I could fit, I’m not going to. We’re in a hospital, for god’s sake, Logan!” My voice drops to a hissed whisper by the end of my rant.

He sighs. “Why do you always have to argue with me?”

“Because you always want to do silly things at silly times.”

“Darlin’, as you so aptly put it I could have died today. I need to give my girl a hug.” When I don’t move, he says, “Shit, Beth, please, get over here. I need you.”

His words hit me in the gut. How can I refuse that? I can’t. And when I look at him in that bed I don’t see the burly biker who broke my heart, I see the boy I grew up with, the boy who took care of me when we were younger. And it’s that boy asking me right now for affection, and that I can’t refuse.

However, I also can’t argue with the laws of mathematics. His bulk, added to mine, physically does not fit on the trolley. Muttering a curse under my breath, I pull the chair as close to the bed as I can. We’re practically nose to nose.

“This’ll have to do, honey,” I tell him in a low voice. “At least until we’re home.”

The fingers of his right hand move to brush my hair off my face.

“Home. Hmm. I like the sound of that.”

So do I. Very much so. “Me too.”

He tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear.

“Did I hurt you when I pushed you down?” His voice is soft, so soft it would be hard to hear his words if we weren’t so close.

“You mean when you pushed me down to save my hide? No.”

This is not entirely true; my ribs were jarred by the two hundred and twenty pounds of man throwing himself on me. But considering he did it to keep me breathing I don’t feel like complaining.

His fingers move to the bruise on my face and I wince at his touch, even though it is feather-light. “I’m sorry you keep getting hurt.”

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