Page 8 of Grim’s Angel

Her mouth falls open. “I didn’t mean to fire.”

“I know.”

The fear in her hazel eyes is too raw for doubt. Her hands tremble at her sides while the rain plasters soft brown waves to her cheeks.

“I shot you,” she whispers.

“Yeah. We covered that.”

Her eyes glisten.

That hits harder than the bullet.

“Don’t cry.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “It barely caught me.”

“I am not crying.”

“Good.”

“I’m assessing the situation.”

“Looks a lot like crying.”

“I can do both.”

The answer has enough bite to ease something tight in my chest.

McKenna pulls the scarf from around her neck and steps toward me. Her fear has not disappeared. I see it in the care she takes and the way her eyes follow my hands.

The woman is scared of me and comes closer anyway.

“Sit down.”

Most men in Roseburn Falls know better than to give me orders. She has known me for minutes, put a bullet through my shoulder, and already points at the station bench as if my obedience is settled.

“It’s a graze.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve done that before.”

“Wonderful. You can reminisce after I confirm you aren’t going to collapse on top of me.”

“I don’t collapse.”

“You’re losing blood and arguing with a nurse. That suggests impaired judgment.”

Her hands are still shaking, but her voice holds steady.

That decides me.

I retrieve my gun from the pavement, secure it, and return it to the holster beneath my cut. McKenna watches every movement, her shoulders tight until my hands come back into view.

Then I sit.

The bench is built for ordinary men. My shoulders take most of the back, and my thighs leave little space beside me. McKenna studies the narrow gap at my injured side before kneeling between my boots.

The position sends blood somewhere it has no damn business going.