Page 42 of Bared

The Arcadian shifted backward, already communicating his reply. “All right, then,” he issued instead. “How does this change things?” He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. “Or does it?”

“Of course it does.”

“Of course it does not.”

The first line burst from Jayd just as the second tumbled from her maid. Remarkably, Requiemme was the first to scramble a follow-up fight.

“Jayd Dawne Cimarron, listen to me.”

“Requiemme Cyndir Farre, no.”

“Damn it!” That had all of them, Jayd included, popping shocked stares. “You heard Jagger. He has found supplies to set my leg just as well as any doctor—”

“Not just as well,” Jayd argued. “No offense intended, Jag,” she added in a murmur. “But you also said there are multiple breaks, and that means the possibility of multiple complications. Do. Not. Dispute. Me.” She wagged a finger at him with all four of the brutal syllables. “I spent enough hours in the palais infirmary with all three of my daredevil brothers. Breaks are rarely just a snap, in any form of the word. She needs X-rays, evaluations, and a proper cast.”

Requiemme delivered her second gawk-inducer of the minute by scooting higher on the couch, using her bum leg to drag the pillow stack along too. “She has a say in what she needs,” the woman protested past a tight grimace. “And she says that she did not survive a skirmish with one bonsun only to see you snatched by another!”

“Which will happen how?” Jayd returned. “I can remain here, with Brickham and Oz. Jagger—”

“Will not be able to do it alone,” Fox intervened. “I can fashion splints from my supplies but not crutches. Emme cannot bear any weight on that leg, so it will take two of us to even get her downstairs.”

“Fine, then.” Jayd drew up her posture, clearly gaining steam from her friend’s willingness to talk logistics. “So Ozias goes too.”

Fox reacted with contemplative quiet.

Oz scrubbed a hand up his jaw.

Requiemme slammed a fist to her forehead. “Creator’s toes. I am not comfortable with this.”

Brick wanted to nod right away. Neither was he. Not at all. The mere idea of being sequestered in here, alone with the beautiful pixie princess, already had his mind racing, his blood sizzling, and his cock pulsing.

Not a temptation cocktail he’d had to fight in a long time.

A long. Damn. Time.

But was he going to be the one to negate Jayd now? Especially when she was right? He had all the necessary proof just by looking down at Emme again. Her leg was becoming a piece of abstract art, with shades of red, pink, blue, and purple blending into each other. The woman was wincing in pain more frequently, despite the copious ganja in her system.

At last, Oz said something again. “That leg really does need professional medical attention, kids.”

“I am inclined to agree.” Fox said it with enough apology to keep Requiemme quiet. “And we might have a fighting chance, even with security cameras, if we dirty up Emme’s face a little.” He looked at Oz. “You and I have a few days of hair on our faces. We can tuck our hair beneath caps.”

“And you can pay the bill with this.” Jayd pulled out Fox’s arm by the wrist and then slammed her money roll into his palm. “No financial trail either.”

“Perfect.” Fox fanned the corners of the bills, which were all huge denominations. Since the Arcadian didn’t question where Jayd had accessed so many euros at once, Brick decided he wouldn’t either. That just left room in his brain for more dazed admiration of this woman, proving herself as brave and resourceful as she was bold and beautiful.

Not a thought he needed at this moment, especially when Emme groaned again. The princess abandoned her stubborn side to sweep a desperate look over them all.

“Please!” she cried. “Help her!”

The moment was a turning point. Fox and Oz blazed as impressively as a spec ops squad who’d rehearsed their mission a hundred times. Brick helped where he could, using some shoe polish that Jayd routed from a cupboard to add realistic “dirt” to Emme’s face and neck.

In less than five minutes, they were out the door and into their rented A-segment. Brick watched from the window, struggling not to wince, as his friends eased Emme into the little vehicle. At least Oz had secured a four-door compact rather than one of the rolling soda cans favored by so many Parisians. He got hives just thinking of cramming into one of those glorified golf carts.

Though his existing circumstances were barely more than a step better.

Because here he was, cloistered with a human who captivated him more than ever. Who yanked the air out of his chest with every urgent step she paced to the kitchen and back. Who had him studying her with every pause at the apex of her path, a break just long enough to indulge some kind of restless action.

Some were basic, like her trademark finger taps on various surfaces. Others—the ones that arrested him the most—were more pronounced. A sweep of her arms toward the ceiling. A scratch of fingers through her haphazard haircut. A tiny hop-skip, as if she was preparing to play invisible hopscotch. Some of it was random and involuntary, but she was deliberate about so much too. Like a child dodging cracks to avoid breaking Mama’s back.