Chapter Thirty-Six

Garrett took the fastest shower on record, and walked out of the bathroom five minutes later in a towel, startling her when he opened the door. No doubt she’d been listening at it to make sure he didn’t fall over. The orange juice and stitching had worked wonders, but he was still a little shaky.

He would have been happy to stay under the hot water for as long as it held out, but he didn’t want to leave her alone. He’d already relied on her more than he should. He was the one who was supposed to be protecting her.

But hell, he’d be dead if it wasn’t for her. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind. She’d compromised her own safety and come back for him. As much as he’d played the hard-ass and yelled at her about it, he was truly touched.

He spared a glance at his wound in the mirror in front of the bed. She’d done a crappy job of stitching him up, but that wasn’t a surprise, given her lack of training and how badly her hands had been shaking.

The important thing was, the bleeding had stopped and the stitches would hold. The scar would be a constant reminder of the woman who was sitting on the bed watching him.

He smiled at the thought.

What he wouldn’t do for the chance to climb on top of her and show her all the ways that bed sex was better than countertop sex. But at the moment, he could barely get his bag unzipped to get out some clean clothes. Awesome sex was totally out of the question.

Water dripped off his elbow and chin as he pulled the towel tighter around his waist and tried the zipper again. He could feel her eyes on him.

“My God,” she said with a gasp.

No doubt she’d spotted the dark bruises marking up his back and stomach. “It’s fine. Nothing’s broken,” he reported as if he’d had an X-ray machine in the bathroom. The truth was, he was pretty sure something was. But he’d broken ribs before and survived. He would survive this time, too, despite the burn every time he took in a deep breath.

She pushed his hands away from the bag and opened it, dug around, and pulled out a pair of shorts and a zip-up hoodie.

“I’ll go get you some ice,” she said and went for the door.

“No. I’m good.”

“You’re not. Those bruises are awful. They need ice.”

Something about how she tucked the Glock in the waistband of her jeans and pulled her sweatshirt over it made his body respond. He was grateful he was too beat-up to act, or he would be in process of making yet another big mistake with her.

She didn’t wait for him to argue or stop her. She picked up the ice bucket and the plastic liner, and left.

He should have stopped her. It wasn’t safe to let the witness go anywhere without protection. But he also realized she might need a moment away from him. Away from the reality of their situation.

The reality that death was a distinct possibility and could be waiting anywhere.

Hell. Even at the ice machine.