Page 68 of Talk to Me

The delicate warrior perched on the kitchen counter while Locke doctored the wounds on her feet demanded all of my attention. A storm brewed in her deep gray eyes. The kind of storm where most men would need to seek shelter.

For some reason, whenever we’d talked, I’d pictured them as blue. Like a summer sky, but they were the color of lead and steel. Dark, and turbulent. They absolutely suited the warrior whose gaze kept moving, assessing, and searching for answers.

She let out a hiss of sound and Locke flicked a look up. “Sorry, almost done.”

“It’s okay,” she assured him, white knuckling her way through the treatment. She was in pain. Assholes had done a real number on her.

Locke used care and an economy of motion to tend to each cut before he layered gauze against the bottom of her right foot and sealed it into place. Finished with the first, he worked on her left foot.

“Are you hungry?” Remington asked. It was the question I should have asked. Dammit.

“I haven’t had a lot to eat in days,” she admitted in a voice that gained in strength each time she used it. A voice that normally held soothing strength, confidence, and sass to keep me in line.

That something broken had etched a mark even on her voice ignited a raw kind of fury in me. Remington seemed remarkably cold despite his dedication to finding her. Suited the sniper. Locke seemed to be managing to keep his temper in check.

Me? I just wanted to put my fist through a wall. Or better, go back to the installation and drop enough C4 down the shafts until it crushed everyone inside or flushed them out.

Either would work for me.

For now, I moved to the other bedroom. There were two beds in here and only one in the room we’d left for her. In the two-bedroom cabin, it was clear we would need to balance watch with rest. One of us could sleep while the other two kept watch.

Depending on how long we were here. But we couldn’t keep driving without doing a full assessment of her injuries and treating them. Unzipping my bag, I dug down through the clean clothes until I found the heavily insulated socks.

Beneath those were a pair of old sweatpants with a drawstring that I’d cut the ends off of years ago. They worked for sleeping in. The fabric was worn to total softness. I liked the damn things too much to toss out.

Never really thought I’d need them for someone else, but they’d cover Patch’s ass. None of us had anything resembling panties. The last thing it occurred to me to grab for her at her place was her clothes.

After stalking back out to the kitchen, I arrived as Remington set a steaming mug of coffee next to her and Locke packed away the medical supplies. She had just reached a trembling hand for the cup when I held up a finger.

I needed to not focus on why her expression tightened or her knuckles had gone white. Even more, I needed to not think about what they’d done to elicit this reaction from her. For now, I packed it away because her condition made me homicidal enough.

“Socks,” I told her holding them up and setting the shorts on the counter next to her. With care, I pulled the thick socks over her feet and up her legs. She grimaced despite how gentle I’d tried to be. “Sorry.” The gruff word popped out.

“You didn’t hurt me,” she said, her raw voice scraping across me. “I just realized my legs haven’t been waxed in forever.”

I paused, glanced at the baby fine hairs that I hadn’t even registered. With a shrug, I flicked a look up to catch her weak smile. “They look fine to me.”

Her skin was soft too. But that was a conversation for another day. Once I had the socks on her, I held up the cutoff sweatpants.

“Not quite panties, but they will cover your ass and the drawstring can keep them up.”

The tremulous smile, while faltering, was the first real glimmer of improvement I’d seen.

“Will you help me?” The fact she even needed to ask told me more than anything, we had some work to do.

“Yes.” I didn’t dress it up in flowery words or dip it in sugar. She was already rallying, on her feet,—despite all her obvious injuries—and ready to plan. While I wouldn’t be opposed to coddling her, I didn’t think she’d appreciate it.

Rather than let Locke or Remington help, I tugged the shorts up her legs. When they were most of the way up, I gripped her waist and raised my brows. At her nod, I lifted and she tugged the shorts all the way up. Once she had the tie fastened, I carried her right out of the kitchen and into the living room.

“Bringing coffee,” Remington announced as he followed us. He waited while I set her on the sofa and then Locke tugged one of the throw blankets over her legs.

I took a seat on the other end of the sofa. That left the guys with the pair of armchairs or the loveseat to choose from. I could have moved, but I didn’t want to. After handing over Patch’s coffee to her, Remington set empty mugs on the table then filled one for me, Locke, and himself.

“Thank you,” Patch said and there was more ease there. Clothes helped. Showering helped. Coffee would help. Reclaiming her sense of self and power would also help.

Vengeance would help all of us.

“You’re welcome,” Remington said, taking a seat on the chair nearest her while Locke took the loveseat. We were all circling her in gradually decaying orbits. It was enough.

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