Page 66 of Sight of Fate

His big body shakes, and his fists clench and unclench. “I need a minute.” He stalks from the room, keeping his gaze away from mine.

Teague raises his hands to cup my face, his expression carefully neutral. “Charli. Sweetheart. Did Martin…did he force himself on you?” His throat moves as he swallows hard.

I shake my head, and his eyes slide closed for a brief second as his breath expels from his body.

“But he did touch you.” Teague’s rage and sorrow slip through for a brief moment before it abruptly cuts off.

In halting words, I tell him what he did. How close he came. I fist my hands in his shirt. “Shower.”

Teague picks me up and carries me into his bathroom. “Everything you need is in there. I’ll grab some clothes.” He turns on the water, then leaves.

Stripping down, I throw everything into the corner and step inside, twisting the handle until the water is scalding hot. Then I grab Teague’s soap and scrub every inch of my body, returning to my thighs again and again until they’re bright pink. Finally, I move on to my hair.

“I found a pair of boxers and a T-shirt. Or I can go down the hall and get you a pair of your pajamas, if you prefer.”

“I…I didn’t do laundry,” I murmur, and the thought of not having any pajamas to wear the next week breaks the control I’ve been holding onto by the tips of my fingers. Sobs rip from my throat as I fall to my knees.

Teague slides in behind me, clothes and all, and pulls me into his arms. “I’ve got you.” He carefully steps out, wraps a towel around my body, then dries me off and drops a T-shirt over my head. Covered to my knees, he pulls off the towel and helps me into a pair of cotton boxers.

A single tear slides out of the corner of his eye, then another. Throat aching at the sight of them, I lean forward and press my lips against his.

He stiffens, and I suddenly feel stupid.

“Sorry, I thought…” I say, as I pull away.

I probe the connection, trying to understand, and run into a brick wall. That’s why it cut off earlier. He’s blocking his feelings. Vulnerable, I stare at him, wondering why but afraid to ask. I try to step back, but his hands gently wrap around my shoulders.

“Charli,” he begins, his voice hoarse. “I want to kiss you more than I want to breathe. But not when your entire body is shaking with fear and exhaustion and the memory of tonight. Or when I’m so full of rage I could level a mountain.”

He sweeps my wet hair over my shoulder. “Tonight is about comforting you and making you feel safe.” He takes a ragged breath. “I’m sorry I failed you. I should have made it clear to this whole fucking town you were mine.”

His jaw firms. “No more space. Not a fucking inch. That ends now. You’re moving in with us. Where you belong. If you want your own room, Macklin will knock down a wall and build one.”

I open my mouth to protest, but the last three days have sucked. And that was before tonight’s attack. With a sigh of surrender, I crawl into his lap and wrap my arms around him.

He lets out a relieved sigh and squeezes me tight. “I thought I was going to lose you tonight, and it almost broke me. I need to hold you. Feel you breathing.” He stands and carries me into the bedroom, where he sets me on my feet. “We both do.”

I turn and see Macklin, wearing a sleeveless shirt, cut muscles on display, lying in bed, waiting for us. His deep blue eyes scan my face, then lift to have a silent conversation with Teague.

Teague strips down to a pair of black boxer briefs and motions to the bed. “You’re sleeping in the middle.”

Swallowing hard at the sight of him in almost nothing, I slip beneath the covers and scoot closer to Macklin, who turns to face me. Teague turns off the light, but thankfully, there’s a soft glow coming from the nightlight plugged into the wall beside the bed. I don’t remember that being in here the last time I stayed, but maybe I missed it with the TV on.

Teague slides into bed and pulls me into his arms. Macklin moves closer until his front is pressing against me. Safe and warm, I give in to the exhaustion tearing me down and sink into a deep sleep.

Bright sun filters through the curtain, letting in the morning light. My eyes are gritty, full of spent tears and bad dreams filled with Martin’s face and hands. Every time I woke, Teague and Macklin would soothe me, then press their bodies against mine in a cocoon of safety until I fell back to sleep.

Hair tickles my cheek, and I pry my eyes open to find my head on Macklin’s barrel chest and his hand at my waist. My bare waist. Panicking, I shove my shirt down, dislodging his hand and moving my head back to my pillow.

He opens his eyes and a tiny line appears between his dark brows. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

There’s a gruff note of hurt in his voice that has me scrambling to explain. “It’s not you. It’s me.” Well, that’s stupid. I blow out a breath. “I’ve got scars. On my back.”

He’s silent for a long moment, then he eases out of bed. Reaching back, he grabs the neck of his shirt and pulls it off. Transfixed by the two massive scars, running from his shoulder blades to the small of his back, I rise to my knees and move closer.

Four inches wide with jagged edges, they don’t look like any wound I’ve ever seen. And given the amount of time I spent in the hospital and physical therapy, that’s saying a lot.

He turns and studies me, assessing my reaction. “You can touch them.” Turning back around, he presses his fists against his outer thighs as if he’s bracing himself.