Page 59 of Pretty Little Scars

“Okay. That’s okay. What color is your shirt?”

That makes me frown and sniffle again. “My shirt?”

“What color is it?”

I glance down, cracking one eye open. “Red. But I’m so dirty. I’m bloody and gross.”

“We’ll get you cleaned up. Are you hungry?”

So fucking hungry.

Mr. Kincaid brought us sandwiches for dinner, but I haven’t had a true meal in days.

“Yes, I’m hungry.”

“I have tacos waiting at home, but I can make you whatever you want. I’m world famous for my grilled cheese.”

“Worldfamous?” Lightning strikes again, and I whimper. “Where are you?”

“Pulling up behind you.”

I didn’t even notice his headlights in the mirror, but suddenly, my driver’s door is swung open, and Tucker reaches into unbuckle my belt, and the next thing I know, he’s moved me to the back seat and I’m cradled in his lap, his arms around me, my face in his neck, and he’s holding me so tight, I’ve never felt safer.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

“Don’t be. Besides, I’m the one who needed to be held through this fucking storm, and you were taking forever.”

I can’t help but offer him a watery smile at that. “I’m a mess, Tucker. I’m going to get you so dirty.”

“You’re perfect. Don’t you dare worry about me.”

I press my palm on his chest, and I can feel his heart hammering, but his voice is so calm.

“Are you okay?” I ask him.

“I literallyjusttold you not to worry about me.”

Lightning flashes, and I jump, clinging to him.

“I hate this,” I mutter.

“Listen to my voice.” His lips are right next to my ear. “I have you. You’re safe in my arms, I promise you. I won’t let anything happen to you ever again, Duchess.”

I loop my arm around his neck and hug him close, taking him at his word that he doesn’t care about the bodily fluids that I’m covered in.

“You’re so fucking brave.”

I scoff, but he rubs his hand down my back, all the way to my butt, and kisses my cheek.

“I know that arguing is your love language, but don’t argue with me about this. You’resobrave. The storm is passing. The thunder is getting farther away.”

We’re quiet as we listen, and sure enough, it’s off in the distance now, and the rain is just a sprinkle on the roof above.

I take a breath, pulling in the spiciness of Tucker’s shower gel and howrightit feels to be cradled in his arms.

“How are you doing?” he asks quietly. “Your pulse is calming down.”

“So is yours,” I whisper into his neck.