Page 39 of What I Should Have Done

“I need you to protect me, too, Scotch. That’s how this works,” I explained, and tossed the used alcohol wipe to the side.

“What?” her steely glare widened into surprise.

“I might’ve died if you hadn’t been there. The asshole was choking me out while three other motherfuckers were holding my arms and legs.”

A gentle giggle like music to my ears danced around the shower. “Why does it not surprise me that it takes at least four assailants to even remotely make you think you might die?”

Opening a new alcohol wipe, I smiled to myself. “So, when do I get to hear you tell me you’re proud of me for biting that shithead’s ear off?” I teased.

“You knew exactly what you were doing when you threw me that cocky ass grin after spitting out his ear, didn’t you?” She inhaled sharply as I pressed the fresh pad to a rather larger cut.

“Sorry, Scotch,” I apologized, running the pad quickly around the surrounding skin to hopefully clean it up as rapidly as possible. “Does this mean you’re going to agree to actually let the team protect you?”

Her tongue flicked out and ran across plump lips as I worked on bandaging up this cut. “I guess.”

“Good. That starts with improving what I can only imagine are very sad CQC skills,” I teased.

And her palm slapped against my cheek, leaving a sharp sting.

Startled, I tore my gaze up from her arm. “The fuck was that for?” I asked, placing a hand upon my skin that had to be turning red.

“That was just for…for all of your assholery up to now. And for acting like you know everything about me.” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes.

My chest rumbled, a grin stretching wide on my lips. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

She rolled her eyes and looked forward but said nothing.

“When I’m not actively out on a mission, do you know what I do?” I asked, returning to my work.

“What you do? Like your hobbies?” she questioned, cautiously glancing at me, and relaxed her arms.

“I’m a close-quarter combat instructor. I also train all different fighting styles and have fought in professional MMA matches,” I explained.

“If this is your way of offering to train me, my answer is no, Blondie.” She pulled her lips back between her teeth, but a smile crinkled at the edges of her eyes. Her brows suddenly stitched together. “How are you so good at fighting? And I know it’s not just because you’re an instructor and all that shit.”

Drawing in a breath, I slowly blew out through my mouth and dropped my hands to the bench. My eyes glanced at the tattoos littering my torso. I hadn’t ever even told the guys the full story, and here she was already asking about something in relation to them. Technically, asking for a second time. “You tend to be really good at something you’ve done for most of your life,” I finally quietly answered.

Slender fingers stretched toward my abdomen. Her fingers. She paused, hovering over one of the tattoos. “Can I?” she quietly asked.

I stared at her near-touch. I’d never even let Rachel… Yet here I was, not telling her no. I wasn’t immediately shoving her hand away. Maybe there was a reason for that. Someone else knowing might not be such a bad thing? But would she understand? If she really knew, would she accept me as I am?

Despite my reservations, I nodded once.

Her hand trembled as she stretched forward. While I closed my eyes, her fingers brushed against my skin. I heard her inhale.

And I snatched her hand away from my stomach. Tearing my eyes open, knowing that there was about to be disgust in her gaze, I immediately froze. Not disgust, but…compassion filled her eyes.

She didn’t move, barely blinked as I studied her. The feel of the raised skin, the scar beneath the ink, hadn’t closed her off. Unlike Rachel who didn’t even like to look at them, Scottie wasn’t grossed out by actively touching them.

Slowly, I opened my fingers, releasing her hand from my unnecessarily aggressive hold.

Her eyes softened, the pain on her face as a result of her wounds melted away, and her gaze shifted back to my torso. And just before she narrowed in on the tattoos, I caught her briefly raking up and down my body.

I almost made some comment about it, but as she placed her fingers back against the scar, any flirtatious, witty thought whisked away. All that remained was her touch, trailing across every mangled spot on my torso that I’d tried to hide with ink.

She didn’t say anything about it. She didn’t ask more questions. Instead, she explored each of them across my torso. Whatever burden I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying concerning them, floated away with every second ticking by as her fingers drew across my scars.

“Why crows?” I quietly asked, watching her touch make its way to a new tattoo near my right hip.

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