Page 43 of Brother's Keeper

His sudden aggravation bled onto me, and I snapped back. “Because it was obviously a trap.”

Nash grabbed my shoulder and turned me toward him. “And yet, you went?”

I fixed him with a weary gaze. “Someone had to.”

“Not alone!” he exclaimed, loudly enough I almost missed the way the water had earlier clogged my ears. “You should’ve told me.”

I blinked slowly. “Consider this me telling you.”

Nash pitched forward and set his mug on the coffee table so hard that some of the contents sloshed out. “Do you realize how lucky you are? You could’ve died.”

I didn’t get a word out in response before he ticked his finger at me.

“Don’t try to tell me it wasn’t that bad, or that you had it under control,” Nash said. “Nothing about this is under control.” His gesture to my soaked body made his point clear.

Grumbling, I stood and left the damp towel behind as I began to pace across the floor. I wanted to go farther. Leave the room and this conversation entirely. If I had known the alchemist’s getaway potion came with a side of scolding, I might have taken my chances without it.

Nash joined me in standing, looking taller and somewhat imposing as he scowled at me. “When I say you could havedied, does it mean anything to you?” he asked. “Do you feel the gravity of that? Dead. Gone. No more. Life over.”

In the ten years I’d known Nash, we’d never once come to blows. He looked almost ready for it now, ready to knock some sense into me if I wouldn’t accept it any other way. I’d already had my ass kicked once tonight, but I had a little fight left in me yet.

“Sounds like any given Tuesday,” I said through gritted teeth.

Nash gave his head a single, sharp shake. “Don’t give me that tough guy act. And don’t even think about pulling something like this again. Or, if you do, take me with you.”

“You’re a bartender, Nash.” I regretted the condescension in my tone as soon as I heard it. “What are you gonna do? Drink ‘em to death?”

His biceps flexed, straining the folded cuffs of his shirt sleeves. The sight gave me pause, and I wondered if it was premature to offer makeup sex.

“You’re not a fighter,” I said, still staring at his arms. “You have no place in this.”

Nash moved forward. “Don’t count me out so easily. I can help.” His voice had lowered to that soft, honeytone that worked as well as a lullaby tempting me to much-needed sleep.

I fought it off, swiping through the air to create distance between us. I didn’t come here for sympathy, or aid, or to drag Nash into danger.

“I don’t want you to!” The words burst out, fueled by weakening resolve. “I have enough of that. Everyone fights, and kills, and dies.” A sorrowful laugh swelled in me. “You stay here, and serve drinks, and smile… and you’re safe.”

Nash’s eyes locked with mine for a long, unblinking moment. It left me feeling conspicuous with my soggy shirt plastered to my skin and my emotions on display. I wasn’t sure when it had happened, but I couldn’t deny that his wellbeing had become immeasurably important to me. He had wormed his way into the small circle of people I was willing to fight—possibly die—for.

Nash took a step to close the gap between us and threw his arms around me. Pain sparked in my ribs, and my first thought was to throw him back. My second thought—the realization I needed comfort as much as he did—was to let my body go limp.

“You think I don’t want you to be safe, too?” he asked. “Dropping in like that, half-drowned and frantic? You scared me.”

My arms hung loose as I rested the uninjured side of my face against him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “For scaring you.”

“Sorry enough not to do it again?”

I raised my shoulder in a half-shrug. “I try not tomake promises I can’t keep.”

Warm air ruffled my hair as he exhaled across the top of my head, then chased it with a kiss. “Sweet, stubborn man.”

The words made my skin prickle, and I pulled away from him. Retrieving the towel from where it lay on the couch, I threw it over my shoulders once more. “Don’t call me sweet, Nash,” I muttered. “It’s hell on my ego.”

“Icepack incoming.” Pippa blew into the room carrying a Ziploc bag of ice. “Should take some of the swell out of that shiner.” She tossed the bag for me to catch, and I raised it to my swollen eye.

The sting of the cold and sharp edges of ice cubes brought more pain than relief, but I held it in place anyway. “Some alchemist your brother is,” I told her with mocking disdain. “Said he’s got nothing for it.”

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