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“We should leave before the medical team gets here, I don’t want any theatrics around me,” he slips past me and steps out, then holds the door for me.
“I will…” I swallow, “I’m driving.”
I can’t make sense of myself as his words replay in my mind in a dizzying loop.
You are worth every fucking thing.
Chapter Twenty-Three
RONAN
Olivia stops the car in front of the staircase of my manor, a little too close. I bet she scratched the car against the steps.
She has been driving like she is intoxicated, with trembling hands and stomping her feet, the telltale that she is a nervous wreck.
I extend my hand to her, and she takes it. Then I squeeze gently, sapping some of her tension as I see her shoulders slack a bit.
We walk into the house in silence, and I keep holding her hand, loving how it fits into mine. I never thought anyone’s hand could fit this perfectly, and I never thought hands fitting was something I would love, but here I am.
I lead her straight to the hallway of my quarter, and she knows better than to try to go to her bedroom because as we get close to it, my grip around her hand tightens, sending a loud message that she is coming with me.
I lock the door behind us and let go of her hand, instantly missing her warmth. I want to kiss her. But I don’t. Not yet. I give her a small smile and brush my thumb across her chin. I chuckle softly as she takes a deep breath and shyly looks to the ground.
My Olivia.
I strut into my bathroom and head straight for the marble-like drawer close to one of the sinks. I open it to get the first aid kit and step out of the bathroom to find Olivia now sitting on the bed, with both hands interlocked on top of her lap.
“We are home now,” I reassure her and then strut over to her, dropping the first aid box on it, “Breathe,” I say, sitting by the edge of the bed.
I open the first aid box. It’s not my first time taking a bullet, and I can’t be certain it’s the last.
I pick up a tube of heparinoid, and Olivia drags herself a little closer to me.
“Let me help you,” she stretches out her hand, and I hand over the heparinoid to her. She stands, then climbs on the bed, crawling to go behind me. “Let’s see what we have here,” she reaches for the hem of my shirt, and my body picks up something other than the bite from the wound—something warm and tingling that’s now traveling with the speed of lightning to my loins.
I observe her helping me out of my clothes as her delicate fingers unbutton my shirt. The brush of the fabric pumps more heat down my loins. I catch her sucking in a breath, but the thought is quickly replaced as she helps to unclasp my bulletproof vest and get it off me.
“Not terrible, but bad,” her voice is quivering.
She reaches for the gel, but I’m too self-aware, too hung up with trying to fight the urge to pull her to me and cross all the fucking lines, to notice.
The cold from the gel gives me the information I had missed. I grind my teeth, reigning in the pain.
Done bandaging up my wound, she blows air on it with her mouth and fuck me… I close my eyes, breathing in so deeply that I feel my stomach hollowing from the effect.
She stops, and I take a minute to collect myself, but she comes back and her finger circles around the spot, smearing more heparinoid on the wound. I groan, deep and low, then grit my teeth as my cock reacts to that contact.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Does it hurt?”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t.” Hell, I will take more bullets for this. “Not that spot anyway.”
“Are you are hurting somewhere else?” She asks.
“Yes, my heart,” that’s exactly the place I wish there were a balm for.
She scoots down from the bed and comes to stand in front of me, “Were you injured on your chest?” She looks so clueless, making me smile for the first time since this awful ordeal.
“I heard you, Olivia,” I chuckle, “what you said when you thought I was dying.”
