Page 33 of Frost and Death
Worry clouds over that my personal health is further damaging my reputation. “How did we get here? What happened in the ballroom? Did anyone see?”
“Why don’t you answer my questions first? Are you hurt?”
I stare into his blue eyes, my breath rattling against my chest, not only at our proximity but in relief this happened with him rather than anyone else. Still, I’m sheepish in divulging my health.
“It’s honestly embarrassing to tell you.”
“It can’t be as bad as what I am imagining.”
I chuckle, knowing my cycle is the last thing he would consider. “Whatareyou imagining?”
His arms tense around me briefly, and I swear I hear a low rumble come from him. The dip of his voice is so low it tempts me closer.
“I thought someone was hurting you, as well as other things.”
I have no idea what he means. All I do know is I find safety in his strong hold.
I take a bite of his sweet lure, grabbing his leather vest and tugging him close. Watching his lips, I lick mine at the thought of what he would taste like.
I reassure him with a small admission. “I am alright. And that is the second time you’ve saved me.”
But I remember where we are, hidden away from prying eyes. Concern over if anyone saw has me stifling my pain, needing to do damage control if there has been any.
I ask, “What happened in the ballroom? Did anyone see?”
He touches the side of my face, drawing my breath taut. This man stares intently in my eyes, full of seriousness and concern.
“You don’t have to hide your pain from me. Tell me.”
Sensing I am not going to get answers by deflecting and making up excuses, I opt for the boldness he had last night. I surrender to laying the truth bare to him.
“It’s my cycle.” The scarred man’s face relaxes slightly, and I continue, “When it mixes in with a lot of stress, it can be—debilitating.”
I am about to tell him more if only to better explain, but I stop short when a laugh escapes him.
“I never would have thought bleeding would be debilitating,” he jests.
I know a joke when I see one, but for the life of me, I don’t laugh. Rather, I’m pissed.
Another man who does not understand the vicious cycles women face and glosses over that pain with humor.
At least I have a better reason for hiding my pain from people. I have a duty and an appearance to maintain.
Asshole.
The spell of lust breaks, and I release his vest, shoving myself away.
Shame and anger thrum against my blood as I seek to escape from him and this dreaded room. But my muscles pinch in my abdomen, sending me falling forward.
And again, the scarred man catches me.
So. Fucking. Infuriating.
I’m braced against his hard chest, a repeat from last night.
He applies pressure exactly where my cramps coil, and it is enough to bring relief rather than hurt. When he leans in, my breath hitches.
His aroma drowns me as his lips tickle my ear. “Forgive me. I should not have jested.”
