Page 101 of Worth the Shot

He laughs—and winces—but tries to hide it. I want to take every ounce of pain away from him but I can’t and it kills me.

“But you’re resting when we get there,” he warns. “Those are MY orders.”

“Deal.”

I extend a hand and he takes it automatically. We shake, like we mean business, and then we stop. Except neither of us lets go. Nope. Instead, our fingers lock like they’re finding each other after years of being apart. Like they’re coming home. His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist in slow, careful circles. He looks at me with something raw in his expression—fear and relief and gratitude all carefully mixed together. And then, a stupid tear escapes me. Just one. He reaches up immediately, instinctively, swiping it away with the lightest touch. Then he pulls me in. I fold into him like a cheap suit, holding on like all the moments we missed are crashing into this one. He rests the uninjured side of his face against my hair. His hand smooths along my back, slow and grounding. I burrow against him, as close as I can without crawling under his skin. And just when I think I have myself under control, that I can get through this without breaking, he whispers:

“Thanks for saving my life, Laney.”

And just like that, I shatter.

Completely.

Utterly.

Hopelessly undone.

I won’t question it for another second. I know exactly where my heart belongs.

It belongs to Brennan Hale and it always has.

Chapter Forty-One

Brennan

I look like I lost a bar fight and then got run over for good measure. This isn’t the usual “no pictures, please” situation. Not at all. This is a full-blown “don’t even risk eye contact unless you want nightmares” level of tragic. The entire right side of my face barely feels like it belongs to me. The bruise, now a deep, monstrous purple, has spread from under my eye to swallow my whole cheekbone. Stitches run across my skin in a jagged line, starting beneath my eye and crawling all the way to the bridge of my nose. My right eye is swollen shut, triple its normal size. My nose is the same: bloated, crooked, and furious at me. I look horrific. Scary. And you can fucking bet it hurts exactly as bad as it looks. Every time I talk, pain shoots up my face like someone shoved a grenade in my sinus cavity. I sound congested, like I’ve caught the world’s most pathetic cold, and I constantly feel like I might puke my guts out. I can’t tell if it’s the pain from accidentally moving anything I shouldn’t, like, apparently, opening my goddamn mouth, or the concussion itself.

Technically, medically, I’m fine. Upright, alert, aware. Realistically? I’m pale, swollen, bruised, exhausted, and absolutely trying to play it down for everyone else. Especially for the beautiful, five-foot-seven woman currently playing real-life nurse in my apartment. I watch her move around my kitchen like she’s lived here for years. She’s barefoot, her hair in a low messy bun, my sweatshirt swallowing her—and it does something to me. She’s focused, serious, and bossy in a way that only she can pull off without making me want to jump out a window. She’s been like this since we walked in the door. Constantly checking my meds, setting timers, fluffing pillows, changing out ice packs, adjusting lights and making sure I don’t fall on my ass every time I stand up.

I’m trying to act fine. Really trying. Which is laughable because nothing about this situation is fine. Every time I so much as move an inch she’s on me with that stern nurse-glare that makes grown men twice my size behave. I’m not afraid of much, but Delaney Collins telling me I’m “doing too much” makes me sit down like a scolded toddler.

She kneels in front of me now, tying an ice pack into a towel. It’s nothing, really, just a normal, mundane thing for her. But having her this close, eye level, her hands brushing my knee as she wraps the cloth? Well, it might actually kill me. I swallow a groan, but not from pain. She notices immediately, of course.

“Does that hurt?” she asks softly, nodding toward my face.

Yes.

Everything fucking hurts.

But she hurts me worse just by looking at me like this—like she’s mine again, even if I never technically lost her. I clear my throat. “Only when I breathe.”

She rolls her eyes. “So every second, got it.” She presses the ice pack gently to the side of my face, and then a soft kiss to the other. “Don’t be dramatic, Hale.”

I try to grin. Big mistake. I hiss through my teeth and clutch the arm of the couch like I’m giving birth.

“Jesus—okay, don’t smile,” she scolds, pushing my shoulder so I stay still. “That’s not allowed anymore.”

“Then stop being cute and funny,” I mumble, trying not to move my jaw.

She pauses, lips quirking at the corner, and she looks away like smiling at me is a crime she’s trying real hard not to commit. And that right there, that tiny twitch of her mouth, that attempt to hide something soft…that hurts more than the concussion. I can only imagine how terrified she was seeing me like that and I wish I could take it all from her.

She tucks a blanket around me, way too gentle for someone who threatened to “knock me out again” if I stood up too fast earlier. Her fingers brush my shoulder, lingering there for just a second too long before she pretends she didn’t do it. This domestic tension is going to kill me faster than the head injury. I watch her every move as she reorganizes my counter for the twelfth time, muttering something about men being helpless, and there’s this ache in my chest that has nothing to do with trauma.

Because I want this.

Not just her here tonight. Not just as my nurse for 24 hours. I want her here in this apartment, in my life, like this always. But I don’t know if she feels the same way I do after her conversation with Matt, and I can’t think about that right now. Not when I’m hanging on by a thread trying not to cross a line I’m not sure she’s ready to cross yet. So I lean back on the couch, swallow my pain meds, breathe through the nausea, and pretend I’m fine. Pretend I’m not falling apart every time she touches me. Pretend it’s just another day.

Delaney finally settles beside me on the couch, knees tucked under her, blanket pulled up to her chin like she’s trying not to touch me because she’s afraid she’ll hurt me. Which is hilarious, because she’s failing miserably. Her thigh brushes mine every time she shifts, and her hair, no longer in a low bun, keeps falling over her shoulder and drifting against my arm. Her breath fans across my collarbone every time she exhales. If she moved one inch closer, she’d be in my lap. And the truth is? I don’t even care if it hurts, because it hurts more when she’s not touching me.