Page 124 of Untamed Sinner

She studies me. "Then why do you look like you want to hit something?"

"Because I knew exactly why you were doing it," I say, "and I still wanted to tear that building apart with my hands."

The silence that follows isn't the defensive kind—not the armor-and-redirect quiet I spent this past week learning to read. This is something softer. She lets it sit.

Then her mouth curves—not quite a smile, but close. Something real underneath it. "I'm not going to break, Hendricks."

"I know you're not." My hands find her face. Careful of the bruise, careful of the split lip, I tilt her head back slightly so she has to look at me. "Where else?"

She shakes her head. "Hendricks⁠—"

"Where else?" I say again.

Sighing, she takes my hand and guides it to her left side, just below the ribs. I press lightly, feeling for give. She exhales but doesn't pull away.

"Sore," she confirms. "Not broken. I know the difference."

“I believe you.” I lower my hand. "I'm checking anyway."

"You're bossy."

"You've known that since day one."

"I find it annoying."

"No, you don't."

Her mouth twitches. "No," she admits, "I don't."

I press my lips to her forehead—the only part of her face that isn't compromised—and stay there for a moment. She goes still under my hands, neither leaning in nor pulling away, just breathing.

Then her hands come up and find my waist. "Hendricks."

"Yeah."

"Stop being careful with me and start being useful."

I pull back enough to see her face. The dark eyes, the split lip, the bruise, the particular expression that means she has decided and she’s not interested in negotiation.

"Your ribs⁠—"

"Are sore, not broken." Her fingers press into my sides. "I survived three rounds with Ashford's hired hand. I think I can survive you." She pauses in thought. "Probably."

I move my thumb over her jaw. "Probably."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't let it go to your head."

I kiss her, soft and careful, and feel her make a small, impatient sound against my mouth that tells me soft and careful is not what she’s looking for.

So I adjust.

I walk her back until she's against the tile, careful of her ribs. She sucks in a breath at the cold tile against her skin. I drop to my knees, hands sliding down her sides, tracking every place she tenses so I know what to avoid.

"Oh," she says, looking down at me.

"Problem?"

"Absolutely not." Her fingers thread in my hair. "Carry on."