“If he touches you again…” His voice trails off, but it doesn’t take a genius to piece together what he’s putting down.
“He won’t,” I tell him.
“And how do you know that?”
“Because he won’t.” It’s not an answer. I know this. But even so, it’s the only assurance I can offer.
Jagger’s nostrils flare, but he lets me go and searches the top drawer for something. Washcloth in hand, he turns on the faucet, soaking the terrycloth in cold water, then brings it to my mouth. When it connects with my split lip, a hiss escapes me.
“I knew I should’ve pushed her on the move-in date,” he mutters.
My brows pull as I register his words. Move-in date? How would he know about my move-in date? And who would he push? “What did you say?” I ask.
Jagger shakes his head. “Nothing.” He dips the wash cloth into the water. Pink swirls down the drain as he lifts it back to my mouth, treating my wounds like a seasoned doctor. “Looks like most of the bleeding has stopped.”
“Yeah, my shirt did a good job catching the excess on the drive over,” I joke.
He doesn’t find it very funny.
His focus sweeps across my body. “Can you hold this?” he asks.
I assume he’s talking about the washcloth, so I nod and take it from him, replacing his hand with mine. When our fingers brush against each other, I fight the urge to pull away, surprised I can still find a way to be affected by the bastard, even in the worst of times. You know, like when I’ve had the shit kicked out of me.
“I’ll be right back,” he promises. But he doesn’t leave. Not until I nod.
Satisfied, Jagger disappears from my line of sight, and I look around the bathroom. It’s so…neat. And tidy. And…masculine, I guess? Dark tile. Clean countertops. A single towel hangs on a hook outside a shower. Inside is exactly one bottle of shampoo, one bottle of body wash, and one bottle of conditioner. All of which have matching, expensive labels I could never afford. Not a single watermark taints the glass or mirror. Everything’s in pristine condition. So pristine, I can’t help but feel like I’m dirtying the entire place with my presence.
Jagger returns with a large black T-shirt and a bag of frozen peas in his hands. “Here.” He sets them beside my hip on the counter.
“You were fast,” I note, unsure why I can’t look him in the eye.
“Hawke brought up the peas while I was looking for a change of clothes.”
“Oh.”
He reaches for the washcloth still pressed to my mouth and nose, careful not to make the problem worse than it already is. I hand it over, and he tosses it into the sink, then gives me another once-over. “Do you want to shower?”
The suggestion is enough to seep the last of my energy, and my body sags even more on the bathroom counter. “Honestly, I just want to…sleep,” I admit.
His head bobs in understanding. “You should at least change into a clean shirt.”
I look down at the blood staining the same, threadbare T-shirt I sleep in most nights. “Probably a good idea.”
“Do you think you can handle it on your own?”
His question hangs in the air. Can I change by myself? The answer should be simple, but my body feels heavy and sore and…it’s not like I have any other choice.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Yeah, I’m sure I can handle it.”
“I’ll be outside.”
He moves toward the door as I grab the hem of my blood-stained T-shirt. I start to pull the fabric over my head when my side screams in protest, and I let out a whimper. “Shit.”
“Vi?” Jagger’s concern taints my name from the doorway.
I give up and lower the fabric again. Well, this is problematic. I’m not sure if it’s because of the angle or what, but there’s no way I can take off my shirt by myself. The realization is disheartening at best. Talk about a really,reallyshitty day. Jagger’s back is to me, but I don’t miss the glimpse of his profile as he fights the urge to look back at me. To check on me. To make sure I’m okay. The strain in his square jaw. The tightness in his shoulders. He’s worried. Aboutme.
“You can turn around,” I say.
