Page 127 of The Rising


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“I saw him heading upstairs.” James doesn’t open his eyes. I throw a little wave to Beau, backing out, leaving them to their... workout?

I hurry upstairs, down the corridor, and push my way into our bedroom.

He’s face first on the bed, sprawled out, fully dressed.

Snoring.

I sigh and pad over, climbing on next to him and stroking his hair from his face. He murmurs. Grunts a few times. I rest my head on the pillow next to him and watch him sleeping. It’s the only time he looks peaceful these days.

“Sleep well,” I whisper, kissing his head.

It’s not long before I’m gone too.

His pained groan wakes me, his body squirming lethargically next to me. “Fuck me, that hurts,” he complains, groaning more, making tiny movements and stopping, slumping, moving, stopping, moaning.

“What hurts?”

“Shoulders,” he hisses. “Arms. Chest.” His head lifts and then drops back down heavily. “Everything. Everything aches.”

I prop myself up on my elbow and stroke his back. He’s not moved position since I found him last night. “You know I hate you,” I mumble.

“Yep, and I hate you more,” he says easily, and I smile. I can’t help it. God, I love this man.

I’m sure he’d rather be more awake for this conversation, but, honestly, who knows when we’ll get another minute to ourselves? “You used me, you shit.”

“For what?”

“To keep your mom in St. Lucia away from Otto.” I won’t mention Lennox Benson. Not now. We have enough grievances, and the man is inconsequential, really.

“Yeah, I did that,” he says, sighing, obviously without the energy to deny it. “But she’s back so you can stow away the sass.”

Never. The conversation I had with Esther last night is playing on my mind. Perhaps now is the time to convince Danny to back off, since he looks quite immobile. “She’s a wom—”

“I’m in pain, Rose,” he mumbles into the pillow. “Moody. Don’t make it worse.”

I narrow my eyes on the back of his head. Fine, but wewillbe talking about it. Onto my next issue. “Daniel knows what you do.”

“Jet skis?”

“No, not jet skis. He saw an article in the paper about you and James.” What I can see of his jaw tenses.

“Right.” He goes to get up, likewho have I got to kill? Then drops back down on a howl of pain. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

I wince, reaching to touch him but not wanting to touch where he might be tender. “What happened? Wait...” They were all drugged. Incapable of walking. “Did you carry them out?”

“Yes. About a quarter mile down the coastline. Twice.”

Dodging bullets. God, he’s a hero. And to think I once thought he was a monster. I’m sure many still do, and sometimes he is, but... he’smymonster. “Anything I can do?”

“Massage.” He lifts his head with effort and looks at me with a cheeky smirk, his overgrown hair in his face.

“Massage what?”

“My dick. It’s the only part of me not hurting right now.” I smack his arm and he laughs, then winces. “No, seriously, baby, I’m in agony here. I can’t move.” His face plummets into the pillow. Another groan. “You’ve got to rub some life into me. Ouch. Fuck, ouch, oh you motherfucking cunt!”

I scan up and down his body, getting to my knees. “Where should I start?”

“Shoulders.”

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