Page 10 of Not a Perfect Save

Isolation claws at my insides and shadows loom even in the warm lighting. A lump fills my throat. Refusing to give in to the low-level panic bubbling in my stomach,Istand and drag my aching body to the bathroom. Once there, I turn the tap on and let the water run, just to drown out the silence. The form staring back in the mirror makes me wince. A full-blown Medusa. No wonder Connor hurried away. I wouldn’t subject me to myself if I had a choice either.

Dark circles and brown freckles are the only color in my pale face, while mud-streaked clothes and hairtwisted in knots complete the picture. I wash up as best as I can. There’s a new toothbrush under the sink, along with fresh towels, though I still wish I had a change of clothes. In an attempt to tame my hair, I drag my fingers through the wavy locks but stop at the first snag—my head throbs too much for any more prettying up.

Finally, I steel myself and hobble back to the den where my brain stutters to a halt.

Connor is in a Henley and grey sweats, his long, lean body sprawled on one of the chairs now converted into a bed. Another one, separated by a small table,has also been flattened and is covered in white sheets.Are those military corners?

My eyebrows lift. “Wait, are you staying here, too?”

“Concussionprotocol.Gottacheck up on you,” he says, sitting up.

The rush of relief that fills me is undeniable. And after the talking-to I gave myself, unwanted. "Youcan't just come visit?"

Hetips his head at his barely used crutch, propped at the base of the bed. "Youwant me trekking up and down the steps?"

“Oh, so now you need it?”

He shrugs. “It’s a big house.”

I plop down on my bed and raise my crutch. “En-garde.For right of sole occupancy!”

Connor’s brows rise in disbelief before his lips twitch and he breaks out into full-blown laughter. He snatches up his own epee just as I thrust, and the metal legs cross with a clang.Idrive my rapier to the side, trying to get him from a different angle, but he easily parries my clumsy attack. Fucci, these things are awkward.

I lunge, but he eludes me once more. When I glare, all I get is a chuckle in return before he taps my trembling crutch on either side then forces my blade to the ground, ending our bout.

He whoops in triumph and punches the air, but when he notices my heaving breaths, his expression dissolves from victorious to guilty. “Shit, I—“

"So that's your plan?Wake up in the middle of the night and poke me with your stick?" I puff.

For a second, we stare at each other. Then he chokes out a laugh. I register my words.

Mouth, meet foot.

I fight the urge to grin in return, but it prevails and pulls at my lips.

Finally, finally, some of the stress from the night leaves me.Ilean against the backrest and whoosh out a deep breath of relief.

Chapter Six

CONNOR

My lips are still twitchingat our spontaneous sword-play. But there are a few other places I’d rather thrust my saber.

I wince at my own pun, even as my cock perks up at the thought of any kind of thrusting in combination with Ella.Dickhead.

I gesture at the blue t-shirt next to the bottle of Advil and a glass of water on the small table between our beds. “Figured you might want to change into something else.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m just going to wait outside, give you some privacy,” I mutter, stepping into the hallway. But the additional distance does nothing to stop my imagination from going wild. How soft is her skin? Are her nipples rosy or dusky? Do her freckles run all the way down her body? My cock twitches again. What the fuck is wrong with me?I’m not a man whore like some of my teammates. Hell, I haven’t gotten any in months. Maybe that’s the problem? I pace the hallway until a thump emerges from the den.

“You done?” I grit out.

“Um… yeah.” Ella sounds hesitant.

I peek into the room. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, grimacing. “What’s wrong?” In three steps, I’m at her side.

“Ah... These won’t come off.” She points at her lap. Soft, pale skin is exposed in the gap where the T-shirt ends, high on her thighs, and her jeans, now bunched above the splint. “My foot’s stuck. Can you, um, help?”

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