Page 68 of Cash

I couldn’t look away from Stella’s unconscious face. I had her in profile, eyes closed, jaw slack. I could almost pretend she was sleeping.

My gaze slid over her back—welts shiny with ointment, shallow gashes closed with steri-strips, the deeper ones stitched closed covered in dressings.

The white towels beneath her stained with blood—her blood. She moaned and jerked while Spenser had carefully cleaned her back.

“Should we be concerned she hasn’t regained consciousness?” I asked.

“The mind is a powerful tool,” the doctor started. “I can give you the medical explanation of vasovagal syncope and the effects on the nervous system resulting in reduced blood flow to the brain.” The doctor paused and glanced down at Stella’s back. “But bottom line, the pain was so extreme, as a protective measure her brain turned off. That and the morphine I gave her.” He pointed to a bottle on the table next to the bed. “I’m leaving her Tramadol.”

I had my doubts Stella would take a narcotic—luckily, my house was already stocked with every OTC pain med on the market.

“I’ll walk you up,” Zane told the doctor.

“Whoever did this to her…” Dr. Spenser trailed off with a shake of his head.

“Will be dealt with,” Zane finished.

I waited for Zane and the doctor to leave the room before I sat on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle Stella. The need to touch her, to reassure myself she was alive, battered my normal detachment.

Disconnected was easier. Safer. I allowed the men I worked with as close as I dared, keeping them far enough away they knew not to pry too deeply.

I swept my knuckles over her cheek, taking in her soft skin. Something I hadn’t done six months ago when I had her in my bed.

“Cash?” Stella croaked.

“Right here, baby girl.”

“Cara?” she asked without opening her eyes.

“She’s safe.”

“Knew you’d come,” she slurred sweetly.

I tried not to process that—not the sweet trust I heard, not the clear concern she had for Cara, and definitely not the scratchy, croaky voice which served as a reminder she’d been choked, beaten, passed out, and now was drugged to ease the pain.

Nope, I wasn’t going to think about why the first two stirred something deep inside me. Instead, I forced myself to focus on the last part.

Anger was easier. Guilt my constant companion. Mix those two together and it made the sum of my existence.

I straightened and stared at the mess of her back, using the welts and lacerations to fuel my anger.

Before I could successfully shut down the alarming emotions that only awakened when Stella was around, the door opened. Zane came back in, holding a black t-shirt, and tossed it at me.

“Whose is this?” I stupidly asked.

Now was not the time for some latent caveman jealousy to rear its ugly head. Not when Stella was injured and naked from the waist up. But I’d be damned if she was wearing one of my teammates’ shirts.

“It’s new,” Zane told me with a knowing smile. “Ivy ordered them.”

I shook out the shirt and saw the Z Corps logo on the back.

“For what?”

“Fuck if I know,” he returned. “I told her none of the guys would wear them and they’d end up in the trash. But that was the only one left.”

The women must’ve confiscated them.

“How are you playing this with Cara?” he went on. “Nebraska and Easton said she can go home with them.”