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His jaw sets. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m still getting dressed.”
Of course he is.
I turn toward the duffel at my feet, and my heart lurches. The workbook sits on top, open to Kain’s manual.
I crouch, shoving it into the bottom of the bag before pulling out the sweatpants and T-shirt I packed for him.
“Arms up.”
Kain pins me with a defiant stare. “I can do it myself.”
I hold the clothes out of reach. “You can dress yourself after you stop going white every time you sit up.”
His mouth twitches, and he shrugs out of his hospital gown, the blue material pooling around his waist.
I freeze.
William warned me Kain had bruised ribs. But it didn’t prepare me for this map of violence written across his skin.
Bruising has spread across one side of his torso, purple-black patches wrapping around his ribs and onto his back. There are smaller bruises along his arms, and another dark mark near his hip.
Someone did this to Kain.
My Kain.
A tremble rocks through my body, followed by the need to wrap both arms around him. I want his arms around me, too, his cheek tucked into my neck so I can feel him breathing and prove to myself that he’s here.
Alive.
Okay.
My body almost moves before I stop it.
I can’t follow the old path. The workbook in my bag has rewritten all the rules. We’re playing a different game now.
So instead, I shake out his shirt and hold it out. “Careful with your ribs.”
Kain doesn’t say anything as I work the shirt over his head and help him ease his arms through.
The sweatpants are harder.
Kain grips the bed railing while I crouch and hold the sweatpants open for him. He steps into them one leg at a time, and I pull them up far enough that he can finish without bending.
When he settles back onto the bed, he’s breathing harder than he should be.
I hate that, too.
I sit in the chair before I do anything stupid. “You’re dressed. Now lie back down until the doctor arrives.”
Kain considers me for a moment. “Bunny, about what happened—”
My hands lift to cover my ears. “Don’t.”
“Reef—”
