Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75288 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“You don’t have to call it emotion,” I say quietly. “I felt it anyway.”
He stares at me, eyes unscrutable as he retreats behind walls I have no idea how to scale. His shoulders square like armor snapping back into place.
I walk away with the strange certainty that he and I are getting closer, and also that Silas Mercer is doing everything in his power to keep that from happening.
CHAPTER 28
GRIZZ
I should have known better than to favor a side when Atlas is around.
He’s been watching me from the porch while I secure the hinge on the south gate, and his silence is heavier than the cold air settling into my shoulder. Jaw clenched, I finish tightening the bolt with one hand. Then I straighten too fast.
Pain steals my breath.
Atlas gets to his feet. “Drop the wrench.” His voice is irritatingly calm.
I flex my fingers like nothing’s wrong.
“Grizz.”
That tone, the one he used on patrol, makes my teeth grind. I set the wrench down and roll my shoulder a few times. The joint protests all the while.
Atlas comes down the steps, tracking my movements as if he’s switched eyes with Viper. “How long?” he demands.
“Gate iced over,” I say. “Slipped and tweaked it.”
“You’ve been guarding that arm since breakfast.”
I snort and ignore him.
“You’re not as subtle as you think when you’re hurt,” he says.
I shift my weight and instantly regret it.
Atlas’s jaw sets. “You’re seeing the doctor.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion.”
I finally look at him. “I said no.”
He looks back at me, eyes doing some sort of calculation, before he exhales. “You tear something, you’re off rotation. You want the rest of us pulling double because you’re too proud to get checked?”
“I want to finish my work,” I shoot back. “And I don’t need—”
“I can help.” Kira’s voice comes from behind me.
When I turn, pain slices down my arm. I hiss before I can stop myself.
She’s standing a few feet away, bundled in her coat, hair pulled back, concern plain on her face.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
She lifts an eyebrow, not buying it.
Atlas glances between us, then takes a step back. “I have inventory to check. Try not to break anything else.” He leaves without another word, trusting, damn him, that Kira won’t let it drop.
She doesn’t.
“Come inside,” she says gently. I’m ready to dig my heels in, but she’s already turning toward the house.
“I don’t need—”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, either.” She echoes Atlas’s tone in a way that makes something twist in my chest. Her voice is gentler when she says, “Let me take a look at it.”
I hesitate as every instinct tells me not to let anyone see weakness. Not to need care.
Then she turns back toward me and fixes me with a calm, capable look. She doesn’t seem worried, and there’s no pity in her eyes.
“Fine,” I mutter.
She smiles and leads the way. Against my better judgment, I follow.
Inside, she has me sit on the bench while she retrieves the aid kit. “Did you dislocate it?” she asks.
“No.”
“Strained?”
“Maybe.”
She hums, then steps closer. “Shirt.”
I blink. “What?”
“Take your shirt off.” She gives the hem a tug. “Is it easier if I get it?”
I should’ve let Atlas deal with this when I had the chance.
With a sigh, I unbutton my flannel shirt and let her pull it free of my arms. Once that’s out of the way, she peels my t-shirt up and over my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Her fingers are cool as they skim over my shoulder and the whole area around it. She presses gently, doing an assessment that’s surprisingly efficient.
“You’ve had worse,” she says eventually.
“How can you tell?”
She gives me a faint smile. “You don’t flinch.” She checks my range of motion and palpates the muscle with confident movements. When she hits the sore spot, my jaw clenches.
“Ahh, there’s the problem,” she says.
“I thought your background was marketing? You sure you aren’t a medic?”
Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. “I was a camp counselor one summer when I was in college,” she explains. “I dealt with a lot of sprains, broken toes, things like that. A kid with a skinned knee tried to convince me he was dying.”
That gets a laugh out of me. “You’re good at it.”
“Thanks. I learned the kids wouldn’t panic if I stayed calm.”
The smell of her shampoo is subtle, but it still invades my senses as she cleans my skin and tapes the shoulder.
“So,” she says lightly when she’s almost done, “why do you hate doctors so much?”
I shrug with my good shoulder. “I learned not to make pain anyone else’s problem. If I can still function, I’m fine.”
She arches a brow. “I’m guessing that’s a Marine thing?”
“I guess, but I learned it earlier than most.”
When I don’t say anything else, she stops what she’s doing and cranes her neck so she can look me fully in the face. It’s my signal to continue.