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Fucking smoke inhalation.
And goddamned second- and third-degree burns.
She would have permanent reminders of that night—not that she remembered much, just flashes of Caleb in her room, of heat and pain, of someone carrying her.
OfConnorcarrying her.
He’d saved her life, and she was never going to hear the end of it.
“Fuck off,” she muttered.
“Two more and you’re done,” he cajoled. “And then you can sit your lazy ass on the couch.”
“Lazy—”
She broke off in a coughing fit, hating that his hand came up and rested in the space between her shoulder blades, rubbing gently, hated that the touch felt nice, hated that she knew he wasn’t being a jerk, that he was just trying to piss her off so she’d finish her exercises (shewas the jerk, the ungrateful one, the one who was a total bitch, mostly because that kept him at a safe distance). Oh, and most of all, she hated that Connor was right. She needed to finish her exercises, even though they left her feeling like she’d been run over by a truck.
Jerking away from that gentle palm on her back, she grasped the railing of the pyramid of three stairs—up, up, platform, down, down, floor—and began hauling herself up.
Fucking hated him (or so she wished).
Fucking hatedthis(being here, feeling like this).
Up.
Up.
On the platform at the top, a moment of rest.
Down.
Down.
Hitting the floor.
One rep down. One to go.
Slowly, she turned and reversed her grip on the steps, black spots spinning in her eyes, exhaustion pulling at every cell.
Up.
Up.
Platform.
Down.
Down.
Floor.
Done.
Her head was spinning, her throat absolutely burned, her legs felt like they weighed five hundred pounds each.
Except Connor had called her lazy.
She wasn’t lazy.
