Page 25 of Where Broken Wings Fly

His barrel chest is cloaked in a dirty, red flannel shirt, paired with well-worn blue jeans that boast holes through the kneecaps and a pair of mud-caked outdoor boots. I can see the size of his rippling biceps through the shirt’s material.

With a tangled beard that’s long past fashionably styled and more of an untamed bush, he looks like a rugged outlander with zero regard for society’s standards. Even his wide, strong jaw and straight nose are tanned a bronze shade of brown.

“Where?” I repeat anxiously.

“Take a breath. She’s eating breakfast.”

His chest seems to vibrate with every word he rumbles in that deep, toe-curling voice. It’s almost a drawl, each syllable laden with exasperation, like he views me as nothing but a distraction from his solitude.

“I want to see her right now.”

“You really want her to see you like this?” he counters, lifting a pale brow that pulls at the crinkles framing his eyes. “You should clean up first.”

“I’m fine.”

The giant heads for the kitchen sink built into a row of dark-brown cabinets, and he fills a glass with water. His stroll is so casual, so assured, that the sense of dangerous ease clinging to his oversized frame causes my pulse to skitter.

I couldn’t escape him if I needed to. Someone of his stature could squash my pitiful strength with a single blow. I’m still not sure if he’s a threat or not, even though I know he was part of the group that rescued me.

Returning to my side, he slides a huge palm underneath my head and lifts to bring the glass to my lips. I hate having to be assisted, especially by this abrasive asshole.

“You don’t look fine to me,” he murmurs. “In fact, I’d argue that everything about this situation is pretty damn not fine.”

Draining the glass in several frantic gulps, I could cry from relief. The water feels so good sliding down my raw throat. He gives me a nod of approval and retreats, allowing me to relax a fraction.

“Like I said, I’m fine.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Whatever you say, lady.”

“Where is my daughter? Is she okay?”

“She’s outside with my cousin, annoying the fuck out of him. Little thing has a hell of a smart mouth on her.”

I slump, releasing my held breath. “Thank God.”

“You’ve been out of it for a while. Doc had to sedate you while he patched you up.”

“How long?”

“Twelve hours or so.”

“Shit!” I try to wrench myself up again and fail. “I need to see her.”

Grabbing hold of my hand, he slides his under my left shoulder and slowly helps me sit up. I cling to him tight, my teeth gritted against the searing pain. It takes several seconds of manoeuvring to move me into an upright position.

“Easy,” he murmurs.

“I’m good.”

“Yeah, like you keep saying.”

Once my foggy head clears, I blink as the kitchen settles around me again. It’s neat but well lived in with rows of packed spice racks, clean dishes drying next to the sink and flower-printed tea towels hanging from the oven.

The blanket has slipped down and pools at my waist, revealing my stained underwear. Gooseflesh spikes across my skin as the stranger studies me with interest. He isn’t even pretending not to look at my naked skin.

“Do you mind?” I snap at him.

“Not in the slightest.” He smirks and starts unbuttoning his flannel shirt. “Here, take this.”

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