Page 13 of Need Him Like Oxygen

Reaching up under the black and gray zip-up hoodie he gave me, he reached for my button, and this time, his fingers brushed against my skin.

I didn’t anticipate the little sizzle of interest. Not at a time like this. Or, let’s face it, not at all with Dav.

I was just overwrought.

In agony.

Exhausted.

It meant nothing.

Not even as the sensation intensified as he grabbed handfuls of my waistband, carefully avoiding my panties, and started to tug the material down my hips. My thighs. The oddly sensitive sides of my knees.

“I need to check your feet too,” he said as if just realizing I was practically barefoot in my shredded socks.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I think there’s glass,” I admitted, voice sounding thick with the effort it was taking to keep me upright and conscious.

Dav made a noise in his throat but said nothing as he pressed me back to the toilet then pulled off my pants, squatting down to reach for my thin socks, wincing as he pulled them off. Like my pain was his own.

“Christ, baby,” he said as he settled my ankle on his leg, inspecting my foot. “How the fuck were you standing on these?” he asked as he reached toward the counter for his kit, digging around blindly until he found the tweezers.

“Wasn’t much of a choice,” I said, watching the top of his head as he went to work on my feet.

I was sure there was pain.

But that thing they said about not being able to feel multiple pains at once proved true right then. And my brain was struggling to decide if the pain in my wrist, ribs, head, or face were the one to focus on. It didn’t even clock the sensation of glass being plucked out of my feet.

He worked on one foot. Then the other. Before rushing off to grab a flashlight and double-checking his work.

The next thing I knew, my feet were being plunged into warm, soapy water in a small basin that appeared out of nowhere, making me wonder if maybe I was slipping in and out of consciousness as I sat there.

“Just wrap them up,” I said as he hemmed and hawed on what to do about them once he was done. “I’m gonna need to borrow socks. And maybe slides if you have any.”

“For what?” he asked, looking up, his brows pinched.

“So I can go home,” I said, hearing the way my words were dragging, too tired even to enunciate properly.

“You can’t go home,” he said, shaking his head.

“I’m not going to the fucking hospital,” I snapped, getting absolutely no reaction out of Dav, who was used to my outbursts at this point.

“I wasn’t talking about the hospital. You need someone to keep an eye on you,” he clarified. “You’re staying here tonight.”

He had that edge to his voice that all the guys in this organization did when they were going to dig their heels in about something.

But I didn’t get this far in my life and career by bending to the wishes or demands of the men around me.

“No, I’m not. I’m going home.”

“Yeah?” he asked, head tipping to the side. “And who’s gonna help you wrap those ribs up again after you shower? Pick things up for you so you don’t fucking black out from pain? Feed you?”

“I can take care of myself,” I insisted, even if it was the last goddamn thing in the world I wanted. Just once, once in my hard-ass-fucking-life, it would be nice not to have to be so strong.

“I’m not saying you can’t, Cinna. I’m saying I want to help.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he asked, snorting. “Because you showed up at my doorstep. Beaten to fucking shit. Bleeding. And crying. Cin,” he said, cutting me off when I tried to object. But to what, I had no idea. He was right on all of those points. Even if my ego cringed at the reminder of the last bit. “It’s okay to accept help sometimes. Let me help.”

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