Page 176 of Those Who Are Bound

Jonah

Jonahtookthestairstwo at a time. From the moment his phone rang and her name was revealed on the screen, he’d been in motion.

His brows had drawn together when the call had come through. He’d turned from a customer mid-sentence, his pulse leaping hopefully. He answered quickly, before she could change her mind or realize she’d dialed the wrong number.

The background noise wasn’t something he could place, but her voice as she’d called his name was pain wrapped in pleading apology. She needed him; she was sorry to bother him.

“I’m on my way. Where are you?” He’d started toward the back of the store, to the alley, thankful he’d driven the Jeep today so he didn’t have to put on gear.

“My bathroom.”

The noise now made sense: running water.

But there’d been no hesitation. Of course, he wouldn’t hesitate. No matter who she was, he wouldn’t leave someone who needed him in pain. Scared. This was Elliott, though. She wasn’t just anyone, and he saw it as an opening; an answer to a prayer. He hated that it came at a cost to her in the way of discomfort and fear.

He’d driven like a man possessed, going over scenarios of what could have happened in his head. He’d heard the story of her getting trapped in the bathroom from Lucy. It had been something everyone had laughed about. Jonah had tried to find the humor, but he’d been jealous that Killion had been the man who’d taken care of her.

And then he’d felt guilty about the unkind feelings toward Killion. He should be relieved the man was there and willing to look out for her, but Jonah wanted it to be himself. Not Killion. Not anyone else.

So he barreled up the stairs now to get to her. She’d called, needing him. He’d hated the sound of tears in her voice, he did, but he was thankful for the chance—the opportunity—this afforded him to bridge the chasm.

He heard the shower running as he entered her bedroom. When he rounded the corner and looked into the room, she looked up from the corner of the shower stall; shivering. A wet towel, a bloody wet towel, was doing a piss-poor job of covering her.

Her dark lashes were spiked from both tears and what he assumed was now cold water raining down on her. He didn’t even pause, walking straight to her.

“I’m sor—”

“Don’t,” he cut her off. Bending, he scooped her up. She tried to cover herself with the wet towel. “Leave it.”

Her cheeks reddened as she looked at him with uncertainty, but as he straightened, she released the towel, and it plopped to the tiles. Was holding her nude against him, this body of hers that had not too long ago thrilled at his touch—and probably still would—torturous? Yes.

Elliott was a stunning woman. Her body was a delight, a shrine to be worshipped, and he had been denied the opportunity to kneel and offer his devotion. Not to just her body, but to her. Until now, this moment, so he wasn’t going to fuck it up by allowing himself to be distracted.

He moved her to the countertop and set her on it. She was shivering, her skin cold to the touch. He reached for a dry towel—the closest thing he could grab—it was the best he could do at the moment.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice watery from unshed tears. The words were for showing up, not the towel; he understood that.

As she settled the material more securely around herself, he stepped away and turned off the water, scanning the area. “What happened?” There was still a little blood on the tiles, on the metal tract.

“I fell. I cut myself. Today has been a shitshow.”

Returning to her, he grabbed another towel and draped it around her shoulders; she continued to shiver. It would have to do until he brought her clothes. But he turned his attention to the gash on her—of course—broken leg.

Gingerly, he examined the cut. He heard her suck in a breath of air. “Did I hurt you?” He glanced up in concern.

She winced. “I think I anticipated pain more than it actually hurt.”

He teased her, “Would you admit it if it did hurt?”

A wobbly smile appeared. “This time, yes. Obviously. I calledyou, didn’t I?”

Her words were salt in the wound. He still didn’t understand how they had gotten to this place. He looked at her, hoping his expression was blank rather than tortured.

“What?” she asked.

Jonah shook his head. “It doesn’t look deep.”

“My ankle feels like I might have broken it again.” Her lower lip trembled. In her expression, he saw a little girl trying hard to be brave, struggling to hold back her fears of re-injury, along with her pain.Soldiers don’t cry.

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