Page 31 of Daddy's Bodyguard

Sofia has gone quiet. When I look at her, I swear she’s green. Shit. I forgot she couldn’t handle the sight of blood. It’s amazing how she lasted this long. She closes her eyes and takes a breath.

“Here, sweetie,” Carissa says, gently touching her shoulder. “Your arms must be tired. Let me take over until the ambulance gets here.”

“No,” Sofia replies at once. “I can do this.”

The sirens get closer, but Sofia doesn’t move. I actually feel her fingers in my hair, stroking softly despite the fact she can’t look at me. Carissa glances between us again, and I see the hurt on her face.

I think about our conversation earlier, the one that now feels like it happened hours ago. The way she looked at me, hanging on to my every word, I know she’s into me. I don’t want to jerk her around. If I were another man, I wouldn’t be so stupid. I’d sweep her up off her feet. I can almost see it. Can almost see her leaning towards me with a gentle smile and eager eyes before kissing me softly, the kind of soft that leads to actual lovemaking, not sex.

The wailing of an incoming ambulance fills the air, and within a minute, the EMTs are resting me on a gurney and placing me in the back of the ambulance. Sofia insists on coming with me, and as she sits on the bench beside me, I notice the blood on her shirt.

“Fuck. You’re hurt, Sofia.”

She glances down, then shakes her head. “No. This is all you.”

I glance back at the area, but it’s hard to tell if she’s right. I drop my head to the gurney as a wave of dizziness takes over. Fuck. I hate feeling helpless.

Sophia’s voice sounds raw and shaky as she asks the paramedic, “Is he going to be okay?”

“It’s a through and through and missed anything vital. That’s a good sign. He’ll probably be patched up and released quickly,” he replies. His chin jerks towards her. “Your shirt looks a little more bloodied than a minute ago. Your friend’s right. You’ve been injured.”

“No, I’m not,” she replies, lifting her shirt. “I’m sure I’d know if—” She stops, her mouth flying open as she stares at the wound on her side. She’s been grazed. It’s not terrible, but it needs treatment.

“Why don’t I feel anything?” she asks.

“The adrenaline, no doubt,” the paramedic says, peering at it. He dabs it with cotton containing something that makes her wince, then he instructs her to keep pressure on it.

We get to the hospital, and I’m immediately taken into surgery. Sofia’s waiting for me in the hospital room when they wheel me back in. I’m still a little drowsy from the drugs, but I’m alert enough to check if Sofia has gotten her wound looked after. Satisfied, I get out of bed and reach for my clothes.

“What are you doing?” Sofia hisses.

“What does it look like?” I reply, groaning as I try to get my shirt over my head. I can’t keep you here. We’re sitting ducks, and that’s a risk I refuse to allow.”

And if they know Sophia lived, they’re going to try again, no doubt. In a hospital filled with hundreds of people, it will be hard to tell if the bad boys decide to strike. I barely saw the face of the asshole who fired after us. I only caught a glimpse of his tan skin, dark hair, a tattoo on the neck that I couldn’t make out. A skull tattooed on the hand with a gun. One missing finger.

Not exactly going to help me in a crowd, especially at a hospital.

The doctor tries to stop us when we’re leaving, but one dark scowl from me, and he backs down. Luckily, our Uber came on time, so we didn’t have to linger outside the hospital. I keep watch on the ride back to the safehouse, satisfied when nothing stands out. Sofia supports my body all the way up to our apartment. She doesn’t release me until I’m in bed. She disappears for a moment, then returns wearing a t-shirt that slips over one shoulder and is cropped, so I can see the shorts underneath and a sliver of her hip. And that sliver of skin is probably the best thing I’ve seen today.

Her hands shake as she looks at my gauze. “I’m not good with blood.”

“Truth.” I nod.

“You’re scary.” She sits next to me and swallows. “Acting so calm like it’s a bruise and not a bullet wound.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“You keep saying that,” she whispers. “Like it matters. It doesn’t. You got hurt – shot – because of me. I can’t …”

“You got shot, too,” I remind her, pushing her hair back from her face. “How does it feel? Are you okay, Sofia?”

Her eyes meet mine, and she nods, but her hands are still shaking. I’m tempted to tell her to get into bed with me, so I can comfort her and tell her it’s okay. But she wouldn’t tolerate that. And I have a feeling that she’s the type who deals with shit like this by working through it, staying busy, pushing it down until it’s small and digestible.

“You should call your dad and give him an update.”

“No.”

“Do it, or I’ll get up and do it myself,” I threaten, starting to get up.

---