Page 32 of The Players

She sat on the couch across the fireplace, with the first aid kid on her lap. “Come on, Mister Grouchy.” She patted on the spot next to her. “You’re not scared of me, are you? It’s not like I’m holding a needle. All I want to do is take care of your wound, so it doesn’t get infected. You know, so your arm doesn’t rot off.”

Without a word, he scooted over and sat next to her.

The strong muscle cords of Sy’s arm contracted as she cleaned the blood from it. Looking at him, sitting cool and collected next to her, one would never think that just a short while ago, he’d first pushed her on her knees, scaring her, and then went on a rampage.

It reminded her of that time when Franco had been the target of an assassination and their house had been under fire. Bullets had flown through the windows and she had been petrified. Franco had run past her, in search of a gun. It had been Raul to come to her aid, sheltering her under the bed, taking a stand in front of the door.

And now it had been Sy.

Her eyes roamed over his body. He smelled of a fresh shower and manliness, a combination she couldn’t help but find attractive. To be honest, everything about him called to her. Filled her with new sensations she wasn’t sure how to handle.

Whatever spark rose up inside her, it dimmed the second she noticed the little, gray dots speckled all over his large chest. How had she not noticed them right away?

After she finished putting the last hand to his bandage, her fingers flew to one of the scars.

His hand covered hers. “Don’t.”

“These are…”

“Cigarette burns.” He didn’t look away. No, this proud warrior would never look away. He seemed the kind of man that would own up to any mark that covered his body.

She pulled her hand away. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to feel sorry about. You didn’t flick cigs on me for fun, did ya?”

“No.” There were at least a dozen on his chest, and she’d bet that if she examined him further, she would find more.

“Guess you think them ugly, huh?” His lopsided smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Not ugly. I think they’re a testament of how strong you are. A survivor.” Slowly, she brushed away her hair and turned her back to him. Part of her brain screamed not to do this, show him her vulnerable side, but her gut told her to take a leap of faith.

His fingers brushed over her neck, right where her hairline was. She knew exactly what he was looking at.

“Rope burn?” he guessed.

“I have them all over my body. Some of them are burns from candle wax play.” It was odd how comfortable she was discussing this with him. Not even Jazzy knew how much her body was riddled with scars.

“The strongest horse I ever rode had scars all over,” Sy said.

“Did you just compare me to a horse?”

“Not just any horse. A strong horse.”

A smile formed on her lips and they exchanged a look that said it all. It was all on the outside anyway. How wrong she had been about Sy. From the moment they’d met, she had a preconceived notion about him being a big, bad brute of a man, who wouldn’t know to be gentle or selfless if it hit him on the head. She still didn’t believe him to be an angel—he lived in a too harsh world for that—but maybe they had more in common than she’d believed. And maybe he truly meant to honor their pact, temporary as it may be.

“You took a bullet for me.”

He grunted. “Goes with the whole ‘protecting what’s mine’ thing. Obviously, you didn’t pay attention when I said your body’s mine.”

“Aha.” Now how was she supposed to react to that?

“To do with as I please,” he continued, scrutinizing her with those pale blue eyes.

She ignored that last part and finished up with the gauze that wrapped around his arm. Luckily, the bullet had gone right through it.

“You seem like this huge, modern day warrior with frosty eyes, but you’re not what you look like, are you?”

He rolled his eyes. “Ah, hell. You’re not going soft on me, are you? Making up this story in your head where I’m some kind of hero?”

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