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My voice falters, and I fix him with a teary stare.
“You let me handle this situation from now on,” he says, not unkindly. “It’s not your job anymore. I fucked up. I never should have let you stay in that house. From now on, you let me keep you safe. Understood?”
I don’t know how to be taken care of. Numbly, I shake my head, but I can’t come up with the words to tell him that. He studies my face for a moment before picking me up and taking me to the bathroom. I sit in the chair by the door while he runs a bath.
My head is fuzzy, my eyes sticky. My fight is all used up, washed away by my tears. When he takes my shirt off and lifts me into the tub, I let him move me like I'm a doll. I just lay with my head against the porcelain edge of the tub while he untangles my hair.
My heart is numb. His touch is the only thing holding me together.
“I tried,” I whisper. “I did try, Westin.”
His fingers go still, and then his lips graze the top of my head.
“I wish I knew how bad it was, darling,” he says. “I’m taking this out of your hands now. Understood?”
I swallow, throat dry.
“Say it,” he urges gently.
My lips part, my eyes close, and all I can see are the branches of the willow tree moving in the breeze over Nana’s grave. I hear the hum of cicadas in the afternoon, the soft chirp of crickets at night. Through it all runs the soft current of the river where he kissed me for the first time, the swimming hole where he caught me in his arms and made me his in the dirt.
Slowly, I sit up and turn. Our eyes meet.
“Are you really a bad man?” I ask.
I still sound so childish. He clears his throat.
“I don’t know, darling,” he says. “But even if I am, I’m in your corner.”
I touch his shoulder, moving my hand under his shirt, over skin warm like sunshine. The hard ridges of his scarred brand brush my fingertips.
Gunslinger.
I think that, even if Westin is a dangerous man, he might be a good one. The world hasn’t been kind to him, but he’s not like Thomas or David. His shoulders might be heavy, his body scarred, but he’s not bitter.
No, he’s bright, like the sun—pure and lethal.
My dry lips part. “I understand.”
He doesn’t speak after that. I’m exhausted enough to let him do whatever he wants. His mouth is set in a grim line as he washes my body and dries it. Then, he pulls a clean shirt over my head and puts me back in bed.
He wants me to eat. I’m starving, so I obediently let him feed me broth and toast. One spoonful, one bite, at a time. When I’m done, he pulls the covers up to my chin.
“You sleep,” he says firmly.
He moves back, but I take his hand. When he crouches down, I’m acutely aware of him in a way I haven’t been before. He’s big, his presence filling the room. It’s warm skin, rough fabric.
It’s home.
I look down at his hand in mine. He’s always had so many scars. I assumed they were from barbed wire, but now, I’m not so sure.
“Promise?” I whisper.
He doesn’t ask what he’s promising; he just nods. I release his hand and burrow down under the covers. The world is cold and frightening, but I’m safe here with him.
Hazily, I see him across the room in the chair by the fireplace. He’s sitting with his long legs stretched out, just watching me until I finally close my eyes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
