Page 102 of Protected from Malice
Of all the times to realize it.
I hug Eden to me, feeling dangerously close to tears. I bury my face in her hair, breathing in her sweetness. Reassuring myself she’s safe. That she’s?—
Shit!
Jerking back, I frame her face in my hands. Tacky blood clings to my fingers. “Shit, baby. Ah, shit. You’re hurt. Shit.”
I accidentally graze the cut on her temple and she winces. “I’m so sorry,” I croon, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. How badly does it hurt?”
Wrapping my arm around her shoulders, I guide Eden over to the armchair furthest from a still-wriggling Gayla. After I sit Eden down, I hurry to the discarded gun and pick it up using my sleeve, then place it on top of the TV stand along with mine, in plain view of the front door so the police can see them when they come in.
Then I rush back over to Eden.
Crashing to my knees in front of her, I take her face in my hands again. “Are you dizzy, baby? How’s your vision? Did she hurt you anywhere else? Did she—” As the thought occurs to me, I cast a frantic look down her body. “She didn’t shoot you, did she?”
Eden takes my hands in hers. Her gaze is tearful, but steady. “I’m okay, Rafe. She didn’t shoot me. She just hit me with the gun twice?—”
Fury surges.“What?”
“It’s fine. I might have a mild concussion. Maybe. But that’s all.”
“Aconcussion?”
I’m dangerously close to losing it.
Outside, sirens shriek. Tires squeal. Doors slam.
I know what’s coming next.
Police storming in. Paramedics. Hours of questions. The hospital.
They’ll want me to leave Eden’s side. But I won’t.
“Eden.” I pull her back to my chest. “Shit. I was so scared.”
“I was too,” she whispers. “But I knew you’d be here. I just had to wait for you.”
Ah, shit.
This isnotthe time to tell Eden I love her.
Not with the police steps from the front door. Not with Eden hurt.
But I love her.
Fuck, do I love her.
“Baby,” I murmur against her hair. “I’m never leaving you again.”
CHAPTER 17
EDEN
“Areyousureyou’re feeling up to this?”
Rafe slows to a stop at the red light and glances over at me, his brows furrowing into a worried V. “I know you said you feel fine,” he continues, “but it’s only been a week. You know what the recommendation for concussions is. At least?—”
“Rafe.” I put my hand on his forearm and rub his sun-warmed skin with my thumb. “I know what the recommendations are. A week is plenty if I’m not having any symptoms.”
