Page 22 of Widow's Walk

She stills for a moment, but when the moment becomes too much, she snaps her head up, seizing my mouth like she’s starving for something only I can give her. My body reacts on primal instinct. My hips take over and piston forward, hard and rough. I kiss her with equal brutality.

The heat her pussy wraps my cock with, it’s a burn I feel all the way up my spine. There’s no moaning or groaning. Only grunting and heavy breathing, as we both refuse to submit to whatever it is trying to dominate us both.

My skin is so hot, I wish I could jump out of it. But it doesn’t stop me from punishing her cunt with violent thrusts. She doesn’t let up with her mouth. She grapples my tongue with more effort, hikes her knees up higher, and her pussy gets tighter.

Her breath is shallow, panting out of her parted lips. Her body locks up under me. Knowing Sinclair is about to come all over my cock, has my blood rushing. That tingle at my spine burststhrough my tightening balls, and the moment the muscles in her cunt squeezes, I fucking explode inside of her.

I’m slightly trembling with every last thrust, every spurt like another climax in itself. Fucking hell. Every single thing about this woman is already destroying me.

I feel like I’ve already given up some of my dominance to her, but I think she has too.

The air is thick with the heat we burned through. Our clothing still tangled at our feet, and the sweat cooling on our skin. I can’t move. The sex was hard and fast, but I expended every ounce of energy I had left into it.

“Do you mind letting go of my wrists?” The meekness in her tone has me snapping back in.

I blink down at her, and I’m thrown off guard to see how small she suddenly seems. Her face is blank, but I can see something she’s trying to mask behind her eyes. My mind finally catches up, and I realize I’m still tightly grasping her wrists. And one of those hands is swollen, the skin already red and angry-looking.

I let go immediately, and she brings her arms in protectively. “Let me see,” I say lowly.

She hesitates but doesn’t stop me when I gently cradle her hand in mine and rotate her wrist. The wince she tries to hide stabs at me. I knew I felt a crack in her hand when we were wrestling. It’s much worse than I thought.

“Motherfucker,” I mutter and force her up to her feet with me. “We need to get that looked at.”

“I just need to put some ice on it, it’s no big deal,” she tries playing it off, but I’m beginning to see under the ruse of her hardened exterior. She might actually be human, with a heartbeat and everything.

“We’re having the doctor take a look at it,” I say with no room for argument.

Chapter nine

Blackwell

After a call with our doctor, he insisted that I bring her into his office for X-rays, claiming it sounded like a fracture.

The moment we arrived, I got pulled into a call that couldn’t wait, so I begrudgingly sent her in without me. They’re closed inside the room longer than I like. My phone call was ten minutes long, and I feel like I’ve been waiting even longer.

They finally emerge, and Sinclair is moving slowly with this hazy, dazed grin. “Doc gave me the good stuff,” she lazily drawls.

I snort despite myself, then turn my attention to the doctor. “Ms. Ortiz has a significant fracture. It’ll require surgery for it to heal correctly.” His eyes linger on Sinclair with a sympathetic look that puts me on edge. My fingers flex at my sides. “May I have a private word with you?” he asks cautiously.

I glance back down at Sinclair as she sits there, eyes glazed and smiling at nothing in particular. With a sign, I nod and signal to Hawk to stay with her. He, like Scout—sharp, loyal, unshakable—is one of the only ones I would trust with keeping an eye on her while off the estate.

The doctor takes us to his office down the hall and shuts us inside. I drop into a chair as he takes his seat behind the desk with a large manila envelope. “Do you have access to Ms. Ortiz’s medical history?”

“I haven’t gotten to that yet.”

He looks hesitant before sliding the folder towards me. I pick it up and open it to several radiographs of what I assume is Sinclair’s. He’s quiet as I flip through them one by one. Rods, pins, scar tissue, and abnormalities in the bone. Arms, legs, ribs. Most aren’t fully healed, and hardly anything is untouched.

My face scorches with anger, and my hands begin to shake by the time I’m finished. Slamming the folder shut, the edges crumble under my coiled fists. “Did you ask her about any of this?” I grind out the words.

He rigorously shakes his head with wide eyes. “No, sir. I know it isn’t my place. But it would help if I could have some insight into her past surgeries.”

“Help with what, exactly?” I ask defensively.

“Well, for one, the surgery on her hand,” he explains carefully. “But beyond that, it’s clear several of these injuries were either ignored or handled by someone who did not know what they were doing. It’s not just damage. It’s damage layered over damage.” He pauses and lowers his voice. “This is evidence of long-term trauma. She’s likely been living with chronic pain for years.”

I study him hard, searching for any sign of deception, but I see none. Only concern. “When does she need the surgery?”

“Once the swelling goes down some, I can fit her in.”

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