Page 77 of Draven

He manages to open the passenger door of Ciaran’s car before he gingerly sets me down on the seat. Then hotfooting it around the hood, he climbs into the driver’s side.

“At least you fit in this car,” I say, managing a weak smile.

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “You’re selling yours. You need a bigger one.”

I arch a brow. “Do I? Why?”

I think I know why, but I want him to say it.

“Because you and me.” He picks up my hand and kisses the tips of my fingers. “We’re for keeps, and I refuse to travel with my knees up to my chin. Sitting like that squashes my balls, and believe me when I tell you that is not an enjoyable experience.”

I chuckle, then wince. Fuck, my ribs really hurt. I’d better quit laughing for a while. “I think it’s kinda funny. If you ask nicely, I might rub them better.”

He starts the engine, then pulls forward. “When your ribs heal, we’ll talk about it. Until then, you’ll follow doctor’s orders to the letter.”

The drive to the hospital only takes ten minutes, and of course, Draven parks in a no-park zone. “Ciaran’s problem if it gets towed.”

“You’re an ass,” I say. “And don’t you dare pick me up. I’m not having you carry me into the hospital. There are people here who are really sick. I’ve just got a few bumps and bruises.”

I can tell from his glower that he isn’t happy, but he doesn’t push the issue. I lean on him as we enter the emergency room, where I can sit down. Draven leaves me there as he gives my name to the nurse behind the front desk. While we wait, he paces until he annoys me so much that I bark at him to sit the fuck down. A mother sitting with a crying child on her lap flashes me a glare, and I mutter an apology.

A nurse eventually calls my name, and I follow her into a cubicle where a doctor examines me. She takes one look at my swollen cheek and announces that she wants me to have a CT scan and an X-ray to see if my ribs are cracked or broken. Not that they can do much more than strap them up, anyway, but it’s good to know, all the same.

“Call your parents,” Draven says once she leaves us to order the scans.

I shake my head. “They’ve been under enough strain lately. I’m not adding to their worry. I don’t want them to know what went down today.”

Draven glares at me. “Call your fucking parents, Lola, or I will.”

“You don’t have their number,” I say cheerily when an orderly comes to take me for my scan. I wave as he pushes me out of the room, and Draven’s growl of frustration brings a smile to my face.

The CT scan is clear, although, as suspected, I do have a couple of cracked ribs and need three stitches to my cheek where Shala backhanded me. A few bruises have appeared around my wrists and ankles where they shackled me, and I have a graze on my leg from when they dragged me off the table. Considering how bad it could have been, I got off lightly.

“Battle wounds,” I say with a grin. “Worth it to bring those bastards down.”

Draven is unusually quiet on the drive to my apartment, but I let him stew. It’s better to let him work through his issues in his own time. I guess the reality of what might have happened is weighing heavily on him. On me, too, but it won’t do to tell him how scared I was, or how what could have happened will give me nightmares for weeks. He didn’t want me to put myself in the firing line in the first place, and if he knows how I’m feeling, he’ll try to wrap me in cotton wool, with orders and demands rather than kind words and soft touches.

He parks Ciaran’s car behind mine—I’m guessing he must have had someone pick it up from where I broke down—and lets me lean on him as we enter my building. He even takes the key from me to open my own goddamn door. I let it slide, mainly because I don’t have the energy to fight him, and to do so seems petty.

I argue when he insists on helping me undress, though, but when I struggle to get the coveralls off without passing out from the pain, I eventually give in. The triumphant spark in his eyes makes me want to punch him, but I’ll have to park any violent thoughts until these stupid ribs have healed.

After pulling back the covers, he supports me as I lie down, but when he makes a move to leave, I pat the mattress, inviting him to lie down next to me. He undresses down to his boxers and climbs into bed. I want to rest my head on his chest, but lying on my side is a no-no, so I reach for his hand instead. His fingers curl around mine. It feels nice, safe, and gradually, I slip into a dreamless sleep with the comforting sensation of Draven stroking my hair as my last conscious memory.

I awake to dazzling sunshine and Draven’s soft snore, but when I roll onto my side, I hiss with pain. Half asleep, I’d forgotten all about my ribs. They’re the worst—far more painful than my swollen cheek. Six weeks, the doctor said, before I’ll return to full health. Screw that. I’ll be fine in four, and back to work in two.

Work.

God, what will everyone back at the station say to me when they see me? By now, word of Beresford’s arrest will have spread. The police are the biggest culprits when it comes to gossip. They’ll know every last detail, from his involvement in Kiera’s kidnapping, his culpability in her death, to the part he played in trafficking rings across the country. I bet they’re even aware he saw me buck naked and strung up by my arms.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Draven’s morning rasp causes my stomach to clench deliciously. I may be battered and bruised, but my libido is very much in working order, especially as we haven’t had sex in what feels like forever. Problem is, the desire is there, but my body won’t play ball. Even taking a deep breath is sheer agony. Bouncing up and down on Draven’s cock is definitely out of the question.

Shame.

“Thinking about work,” I say. “They’ll all know by now.”

Draven scooches down the bed and turns on his side until we’re nose to nose. I go to kiss him, but he moves out of my reach.

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