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I’m not fool enough to believe he won’t regret his decisions, that he won’t come back for her. I’ll be ready and waiting. In the meantime, I need to get my Angel out of that uncomfortable, thin-ass emergency room bed and into something much more comfortable. My bed. It’ll hug her curves and ease the pressure on her damaged shoulder.
I know the pain she’s feeling. I’ve had my shoulder dislocated twice: once on tour in Afghanistan, and again during one of my first MMA fights. It hurts like hell coming out of the socket and even worse going back in, and then it’s a grumpy bitch for weeks. She’s not going to like being laid up. Frankie’s never been one to sit on her ass—as delicious as it is. She’s the physical therapist for our Black Ops MMA Team. Captain Jimmy adores her. He won’t have a problem giving her the time she needs to heal. No, the problem will be Frankie.
I might have to be an asshole to get her to stay put and give her body the time it needs to heal. Though, me being an asshole is probably the last thing she needs right now.
My Angel not only has wolf-like gray eyes, but she has a tendency to chew off her own foot to make a point.
She won’t take kindly to feeling weak or vulnerable.
THE ROOM IS DARK WHEN Iopen my eyes. Trying to blink my fogginess away, I look around. I can’t see much, but I know I’m no longer in the ER. The bed is entirely too comfortable to be a hospital bed, and last I looked, I was hooked up to an IV with blinking lights. I have a vague recollection of trying to sign papers and a bumpy car ride, but not much else. I reach for my right arm to feel for an IV and instantly regret it. Pain shoots from my left shoulder, making me moan my distress.
Movement in the shadows has me jumping back, nearly tumbling to the floor before strong arms catch me.
“Fuck, Angel. Where you going?” Gabriel’s gargled-with-shards-of-glass voice eases my panic as my shoulder protests my quick movements.
I nearly puke from the pain. Going limp in his hold, relieved it’s him and not Austin, I close my eyes and wait until the nausea and discomfort subside.
Gentler than a man his size should be capable of, he situates me back in bed. “I’m sorry I scared you.”
“It’s okay.” I dare a glance. His face looms over me as he sits on the edge of the bed, his arms bracketing my body. He brushes my hair off my shoulder, eyeing the damage beneath the sling I can feel strapped around my body. I stifle the urge to fight the confinement. “Where am I?”
“Home.” He smiles at my frown, his thumb sweeping across my brow in that oddly soothing way. “My home,” he clarifies.
“How long have I been out?”
He glances at his watch. “Four hours, give or take. Here.” He holds up a glass that magically appeared in his hand. “You need to hydrate.”
“I need a shower.” And a toothbrush. I take a sip of water as he carefully holds the glass to my lips.
“You need to eat. It’s time for your pain pill.” His eyes remain on my mouth as I take another long drink. “Slow down. Need to be sure you can keep it down.”
Easy for him to say. The Sahara hasn’t taken up residence inhismouth.
He sets the glass on the nightstand. “Do you think you can stand? Not sure I trust you won’t pass out if you take a shower.”
“We won’t know until we try.”
Grumbling his dissent, he helps me sit, maneuvering me until my feet hang off the side of the bed. Besides my shoulder pain, I ache from head to toe. “Did you kick me out of that monster you drive?”Or run me over?
He chuckles. “Hardly.”
No, I imagine he very carefully placed me in his baby—his tricked out Hummer, his pride and joy he won in one of his early maybe-not-so-legal MMA fights—before carefully carrying me inside to his bed, where he’s been watching over me from the chair, sitting close by while I slept.
As much as I never thought I’d experience this side of Gabriel “No Mercy” Stone, I knew he was capable of it. I’ve seen him with his mom and sister. He’s gentle and caring with them in ways I’ve never seen him be with anyone else.
Until now.
In some strange twist of events, my heartbreak and physical condition brought out the nurturer in him, I suppose.
“Do you have something I can put on after?” I’m relieved I’m still wearing my hospital gown but also a little ooged out I’mstill wearing my hospital gown.
“Yeah.” He heads to his closet.
I stand, thankful he’s not there to witness me sway on my feet. Maybe a bath would be a safer choice.
He steps out of the closet with clothes clutched in one hand, his other gripping the doorframe. His eyes land on my hand holding on to the chair for dear life. “Why didn’t you have any clothes or belongings at the hospital?”
As he stalks closer, I take pity on my aching body and sit in the chair with tender regard for my condition. I almost forgot why I’m here—the events leading up to me being naked under a hospital gown at the mercy of one Gabriel Stone and wincing from the pain in my shoulder and my sore ass. A bath would be good.
