"Your sister . . ."
Butch stiffened, he couldn't help it. But then, any mention of that slice of his past was enough to make him feel like someone had juiced him with a car battery.
"It's okay," he said.
Marissa straightened. "I didn't want to upset you. I mean, you never speak of . . . well, what happened to her."
He looked down at his female's hands. They were twisting and turning in her lap, trading off the tissue that was now a ball.
"You don't have to worry about me." He moved her hair back over her shoulder, stroking the fine, smooth strands. "That's the last thing you need to do."
"May I ask you something?"
"Anything."
When she didn't immediately come back at him with something, he moved his face into her line of vision. "What?"
"Why don't you ever talk about your life before you met me? I mean, I know some details . . . but you never speak about any of it."
"You're my life now."
"Hmm."
"What are you getting at?"
She glanced over at him and shrugged. "I don't know what I'm saying. I think I'm babbling."
Her purse let out a bing! and she pulled the thing over into her lap. As she took out her phone, he studied her from a distance even though she was right next to him.
"It's a text from Havers," she said. "The remains are ready to be picked up."
Butch got to his feet. "I'm going with you."
Marissa stared up at him. "Are you sure you have time?"
All he could do was shake his head at that one. "Come on. I'll drive you across the river. We still have a good hour of darkness left."
*
As Craeg sat in a relatively comfortable chair with a padded back and padded arms, everything hurt so badly he might as well have taken a load off on a set of fireplace pokers. Part of it was his own fault. After he'd been brought in from the field on a stretcher, he'd refused the OTC pain meds he'd been offered following his physical exam. He had, however, taken advantage of the food, the bathroom, and the drinks.
That was about it, though. Ever since the six of them had been shown into this cafeteria/hangout room, with its college dorm, concrete-and-throw-rug-style decor, TV, and galley kitchen, he'd been staying away from the others. Short of learning their names, he'd kept on the outside of the group, listening to their stories without offering any details of his own.
Wasn't like he had much to share. He was the only one of his family left, and he was not about to air his personal memories of the raids.
What he did pay attention to was the back-and-forthing of that Peyton guy. The SOB was up and off his couch, checking the bunk room every ten seconds.
Why the guy didn't just stay in--
This time, when Peyton poked his head through the door, there was some conversation. Then he went in and shut the door solidly. When the male came back out after a little while, he went over to the Anslam guy and whispered something. Whatever it was, Anslam agreed with a shrug and a nod.
And then Peyton went back to sitting in the middle of the room.
Not long thereafter, Paradise came out-- and the instant she was through the doorway, everyone looked over at her, the conversating about Tosh.0 stopping.
Craeg turned away from her, mostly because he resented like hell the fact that his blood pressure rose and his heart rate increased just at the sight of the female.
Damn it, none of these people were his business. Especially not her.
"Lady and gentlemales," Peyton said. "We have our Primus."
"Don't call me that," she gritted before any kind of applause could happen. "Ever."
"Why?" Novo challenged. "You beat all of us. You lasted the longest. You should be fucking proud of it."
Okay, now there was the female he should have been going for--not that he was interested in anything sexual from anybody at the moment. Still, Novo was his kind of "lady"--one who knew her way around an obstacle course and was clearly the type to clock an offender first and ask questions only after the jaw she'd broken had been reset.
Novo also looked damned good in that loose Hanes T-shirt and those surgical scrubs she'd traded her trashed clothes in for.
He wasn't the only one who'd noticed, either. Anslam, Axe, and even that Peyton fucker had been checking her out surreptitiously--not that she'd seemed to care, or even notice.
The receptionist, on the other hand, was no doubt very used to everyone looking at her. Blondes like her never failed to get attention.
It could make them targets, too.
And yeah, that was what he'd been thinking when he'd stood over her desk and suggested she enter the program. Sure, a female such as herself was protected by the males in her family, but that didn't always work, did it.
His own sister would have been alive today if that had been true.
". . . with us?"
Craeg looked up at Novo. "What?"
"We're going to go find someone to get us more to eat. We've finished everything in the fridge and the cupboards here. You want to come?"
"No."
"Then I'll get more of those double-stuffed Oreos for you. You ate them all."
"You don't have to."
"I know," she said as she turned away.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he winced as he shoved his ass further down in the chair and kicked out his legs. Shut-eye. That was what he needed--and as he heard the door close, he exhaled.
"You aren't hungry?"
His lids popped open and he shifted his head. Paradise was still by the door of the bunk room, and she looked about as relaxed as he no longer felt, standing there with her arms around her middle and her robe lapels tight to her throat.
"No," he snapped.
Shit, there was no reason to bite her head off.
"I mean . . . no." Great, he sounded like a total idiot.
"How are your feet?"
"Fine." There was a pause, as if she were waiting for him to ask the same of her. "Look, why don't you go with the others--"
"You can't kick me out of here, you know."
He lowered his lids. "You've got to get over this thing about trying to talk to me."
"Why? What did I ever do to--"
Craeg sprang up out of his chair and crossed the distance between them. Getting all into her space, he made sure she had plenty of time to measure exactly how big he was.
"You were saying?" he said in a low voice. "Or are you leaving."
Her blue eyes stretched wide. "Are you threatening me?"
"Just suggesting a relocation that will be better for both of us."
"Why don't you leave?"
"I got here first."
"Because you failed . . . riiiiiight. You lost to a girl . . . riiiiiiiiiiiight."
Craeg ground his molars. "Don't push me, okay. I've had as long a night as you have."
"You were the one who came over here like a charging bull. And I would leave--because I really don't like you as much as I thought I would. The truth is, though, my feet hurt so badly I can't really walk, and I have too much pride to ask for a wheelchair."
Total.
Fucking.
Asshole.
Yeah, that was pretty much how he felt as he dropped his stare further and saw her shoeless, sockless feet in all their gory non-glory: Angry red welts had sprung up on the sides and across the tops, and the right one was so swollen, it looked like it didn't belong at the end of her slender ankle.
He closed his lids for a moment. Walk away. Just go back to your little chair, buddy, sit down again, and let her limp on over to the sofa and stretch out or . . . head back into the bunk room . . . or sprout wings and fly away from your sorry, nasty ass.
Instead, he found himself sinking to the floor. Both of his knees cracked so loudly, it was like snapping a pair of branches in the quiet room, and his thighs and calves screamed at the change in position.
"They look really bad," he said softly.
He didn't
mean to reach out and touch her skin. He really didn't. But somehow his hand went forward and he brushed the top of the left one--on what was the only stretch of non-red skin.
Above him, he heard her inhale sharply, and for some reason, he didn't trust himself to look up at her. "Did I hurt you?"
It was a while before she answered in a breathless voice, "No."
He ran his fore - and middle fingers so lightly across the top of her foot that he could only sense the warmth in her skin.
Craeg's own body shuddered. And his voice wasn't steady as he said, "I hate to see these marks."
She probably had them elsewhere, too. Contusions, bruises, scrapes, places that were rubbed raw. He wanted to touch all of them.
Touch other parts of her, too.
This was bad, he thought. Dear God, this was very bad. . . .
His sex drive had been asleep for a long time and the last thing he needed right now was for it to wake up, especially under these conditions. Especially with a female like her.
You didn't have to be an aristocrat to be a lady. Even commoners who were working girls could have standards and appropriately save themselves for a proper mating.
Which would not be to an orphaned floor layer's son.
Oh, and she was very, very clearly a virgin.
The way she held herself told him that. The way Peyton, who was clearly a player, respected her space told him that.
But mostly he knew it because of that inhale, that whispered no.
This was realllllly bad.
Chapter Fourteen
Paradise's heart was like something out of a drum section, and the surges of heat crashing through her body were as bold and bright as a set of cymbals.
Craeg was down on the floor in front of her, his huge body folded into some kind of awkward sitting position, the muscles of his shoulders straining the thin white T-shirt he was wearing, his dark head bent as he carefully ran his fingertips over the top of her foot.
Even though she was exhausted, she felt every nuance of his touch--and also became achingly aware that she was naked under the robe and the johnny.
Man . . . forget about the aches and pains. What agony?
The only thing that registered from her body was some great, undefined potential she didn't fully understand, but wasn't completely ignorant of, either.
This was . . . sexual attraction. Lust. Desire.
Right here, right now.
Unrepentant, unforgiving, uncompromising chemical attraction.
"I shouldn't be touching you like this," he said softly.
No, she thought. He shouldn't. "Don't stop."
His head angled up, and his eyes met hers. "This is not a good idea."
Definitely was not. Really, totally, definitely was not. "I feel drunk."
Craeg closed his eyes and winced. "I gotta stop."
But he didn't. He just ran that finger up onto her ankle and then higher to her shin.
"I don't have any clothes on," she blurted.
Now he bowed his head and rubbed his face with the hand that wasn't touching her. "Please don't tell me things like that."
"I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm saying."
"I realize that."
As his body seemed to tremble, she whispered, "Is this why you don't like me? This connection?"
"Yes."
"So you feel it, too."
"I'd have to be dead not to," he muttered.
"This is what they talk about, isn't it. This need."
He groaned and swayed even though he was already on the ground. "Don't . . ."
"Don't what?"
Craeg just shook his head, and pushed himself away from her. Putting his knees up, he rested his forearms on them and seemed to try to gather himself. After a moment, he awkwardly shifted his pelvis a couple of times, as if something were stuck or cramping there.
"I'm not going to do this with you," he said in a low voice. "The training program is all I've got. It's the only future I have--so staying in it and doing well is not some vanity thing to me. I'm not trying to prove anything to my parents, either, and I don't just have some jones to get out and fight the world. I literally have nothing waiting for me. So I won't let anything or anyone get in my way."
"You can't do both?" she said, even though she wasn't sure what she was suggesting.
Oh, bullshit on that. She knew exactly what she was suggesting: Having had his hands on her ankle, she wanted to know what they felt like all over her body.
"No," he repeated. "I can't do both."
With a curse, he struggled his way to his feet, his palms going in front of his hips and covering something up as he walked back over to where he'd been sitting before. He didn't lower himself into the chair, though. He stayed standing, staring down at the cushions, big body tense.
"You don't have to protect me," she said.
After a moment, he looked over his shoulder at her--and his face was grim. "Fuck that. I'm protecting myself."
*
As Butch drove them over the river in the Lexus, Marissa stared out the window next to her. The supports of the bridge made a pattern that cut through the view of the water down below, making her think of windshield wipers on a slow repeat. They were up so high, she couldn't tell if there were waves on the surface. Probably not. It was a quiet night weather-wise.
For some reason, she kept going back to when the two of them had fallen in love--probably because her brain couldn't handle where they were headed and so it was escaping to a part of her past that had been filled with wonder and joy and excitement.
Nothing like that first touch. That first kiss. That moment when you had sex for the first time, and you looked at the face above yours and thought, I can't believe we're really doing this!
"What are you thinking about?" Butch asked, squeezing her hand.
"Do you remember where we first kissed?"
Her mate laughed softly. "God, yeah. It was out on the second-story porch at Darius's. I broke the arm off that wicker chair."
She smiled and looked across at him. "You did, didn't you."
"I hadn't expected you to be so . . . strong."
In the dim light of the dashboard, his features were just as sexy as they had always been to her, and she thought about what he looked like when he was aroused, his hazel eyes going all hooded, his face becoming so serious, his body stilling before he pounced.
"I want to have sex with you when we get back home," she said.
His head whipped around so fast, the sedan swerved in its lane. "Well, what do you know. That can so be arranged."
"I feel guilty about it."
"Don't." His eyes met hers. "It's very natural. You want to feel alive in the face of death--it doesn't mean that you aren't sad for the girl, or won't do right by her. The two are not mutually exclusive."
"You're very smart."
"Just had a lot of experience in nights like tonight."
Easing back in the luxurious seat, she let the familiar, erotic sensations pump through her body . . . and imagined herself ducking underneath his arms, and getting into his fly, and sucking on him as he drove along.
But he would never let her do that.
And besides, as they hit the far side of the Hudson, her brain switched gears. "Please don't hurt him."
"Who? Your brother?"
"Yes."
"I'll be a gentleman through and through."
She glanced over at him. "I mean it."
"So do I." He gave her hand a squeeze. "You got nothing to worry about. I wouldn't do that to you--and that makes him a very lucky guy."
Butch followed the directions that had been texted to her when she'd asked for the way in by car, and about fifteen minutes later, they were bumping down a dirt lane that meandered through the forest. This time, the entry building was a modest two-story farmhouse, and there were a couple of sedans parked on its cobblestone driveway. When they got out, they proceeded around back to what appeared to be an outbuilding for tractor
equipment, but which was actually the same kind of kiosk she had been to earlier in the evening.
The procedure was the same: checking in, stepping in, getting scanned by a laser. And then a wall of tools was displaced and they were in an elevator, heading down into the earth.
"This must have cost a lot of money to build," she murmured as they both stared up at the dinging lineup of numbers over the doors. "Four stories underground? Wow."
"It needed to be done."
She looked across at him. "Wait, so you know about this new clinic? Why didn't you tell me?"
Butch shrugged. "I didn't want to upset you by bringing up your brother." He glanced over at her pointedly. "Tell me Havers behaved himself when you were here earlier."
"He did."
Her mate nodded and jacked up his fine black slacks. As always, when he was off duty, her Southie cop hellren was dressed like something out of the Neiman Marcus catalog, his crisp white shirt and his paper-thin suede jacket every bit as expensive as they looked. He smelled good, too, although that was courtesy of his bonding scent and not any kind of cologne--and his Piaget watch and that large gold cross he always wore were sexy without being overdone.
And yet he was right. If he'd wanted to, he could have killed her brother with his bare hands--and he probably did want to. She believed him, however, when he said he would never do that in front of her.
"He's amazing to his patients," she heard herself murmur.
"That has never been his problem."
No, it hadn't.
The elevator bumped to a halt and they emerged into another waiting area that was smaller and more self-contained than the other one she'd been in.
The receptionist at the desk looked at Butch first--and then took her time in giving him the once-over. Not that he noticed. "Welcome," she said. "The doctor knows that you're here. May I get you coffee while you wait?"
Or perhaps something more personal? her tone seemed to suggest.
"We're good, thanks." Butch took Marissa's elbow and led her over to the line-up of chairs against the far wall.
As they settled in together, she was glad when he held her hand.
"So how was the program's first night?" she asked, both to make conversation and because she cared.
His brows locked together in a frown. "It was good--no one got seriously hurt. We have seven who made it through. They're going to spend the day with us--mostly because we don't want their parents to see them that beat-up. Also, it's a good chance for the group to start getting tight. I teach the first class at nightfall, and then they'll be allowed to go home after a workout."