Chapter Twenty-One

“Soup?” Garrett asked, acting as if she’d only been gone for ten minutes and not well over two hours. He hid his smile, stupidly proud of her achievement. Damn. She’d actually done it!

It had been all he could do to silently follow her around in the woods as time after time she went the wrong way. But his patience had paid off, because she’d found her way to the bunker and back in one piece. Well, mostly. Without him having to step in and rescue her.

But why did she look so beaten? Why wasn’t she talking smack? Was her bruised shoulder worse than he suspected? Or the fall on those metal stairs? Or that last tumble onto the sharp rock? Her hand might need some stitches from that one.

“No thanks. I’m not hungry.” She bit her trembling bottom lip as he looked her over critically. Her cheeks were flushed, so she couldn’t have lost too much blood.

“Ice cream?” he offered. She was probably frozen clear to her bones. The thought of adding ice cream to the mix made him shiver.

“No. I just want to take a shower and go to bed,” she said, clearly trying to get away from him as quickly as possible.

“Okay.” He tilted his head to the side. “You all right?” He hadn’t planned to ask. He thought she’d mention her injury two seconds after she got done cheering and bragging about how well she’d managed to complete her mission. He didn’t understand her silence, but decided to see how it played out. Maybe she was embarrassed…though that didn’t make any sense.

Not many people could do what she’d done tonight. Especially without panicking and making things worse.

“I’m fine.” She half-turned, keeping her cut hand hidden and her bloody back to the wall as she sidled away to her room.

“Good night,” he called after her, puzzled as hell.

He would never profess to have vast knowledge when it came to women and their emotions. Sure, he took advantage of the fun parts of female company when they were offered, but his goal had always been to avoid the emotional bits as much as possible. He always made sure everyone knew what they were walking away with at the end of the ride—

A smile, and nothing more.

When he heard the water running in the bathroom, he bypassed the lock on her bedroom door and went in. If she was bleeding worse than he thought, he wanted to be close by if she lost consciousness.

Guilt began to trickle in as he picked up her bloody sweatshirt from the chair. Maybe he’d pushed her too hard. She was hurt, and it didn’t seem like she was going to let him help.

From a protection standpoint, he should have been elated that she was strong and didn’t need him. But something about it didn’t sit right with him.

He didn’t like feeling guilty, so he traded the emotion for one he was more comfortable with.

Anger.