Chapter 15 #2
With the sounds of my neighbors muffled by the blankets, I admit the truth to myself.
I’ve fallen in love with Brennan again, except it’s more than it was before. Deeper.
Even though I saw him less than an hour ago, I miss him. I miss his arms around me, his quiet strength, and his kisses.
I tighten my arms around myself and fall into warm, tantalizing dreams.
For a while I bask in bliss, safe in the comfort of Brennan’s embrace. As his kisses lure me into an edgier heat, I squirm closer to the source. I need relief.
It’s too hot. Nightmares sneak into my dreams, but not the same horrible memories of humiliation and pain I suffered ten years ago. My neighbors scream at each other and pound on the walls. An alarm screeches in the distance, but roaring and crackling drowns it out.
I jolt awake as the smell of smoke sneaks under my blankets and invades my nostrils. Sweat pours down my entire body.
The fire must be close. Too close. Terror holds me immobile until I take stock of my person and confirm no flames lick at my skin.
Following pure instincts, I tuck my blankets tighter around me and scoot across the bed. When I peek over the edge, smoke billows into my cocoon. With a curse, I push my body onto the floor, clinging to the blanket over my head, and land with a painful thud.
I roll onto my belly and angle my head toward where I hope the door is before lifting my blanket just long enough to confirm I’m going in the right direction.
Bright red and yellow flames lick up two of the four walls of my apartment. Black smoke fills my entire room.
Using my elbows and knees, I army crawl across the floor.
Wood cracks over my head.
I imagine Brennan calls my name from far away, but the roaring of the fire drowns him out. With regrets filling my heart and smoke burning my lungs, I inch forward, demanding my body move faster, but my limbs grow heavier and heavier.
My door splinters and bursts inward. Wood rains down on me as massive shoulders fill the doorframe. Covering his mouth and nose with his arm, Brennan stands in my doorway.
A half-sob, half-choke escapes me.
He can’t see me. I reach out from underneath my blankets to grab his ankle, but he’s too far. My fingertips barely brush his sweatpants.
Strong arms lift me off the floor.
I black out.
Horrible visions of Brennan’s flesh burning has me fighting tooth and nail to regain consciousness. I wake coughing and flailing, ready to either drag my stupid fiancé out of the flames or resuscitate him if he dares try to die on me.
Brennan’s relieved curse pierces through my panic. I grab his soot-covered face and cry through hacking coughs as my body expels the black smoke trapped in my lungs.
After an ambulance ride and a handful of hours in the hospital, I’m too exhausted to argue when Brennan tucks me into his backseat and holds me in his arms as a stranger drives us to his penthouse.
Sensing my need for a little space, he allows me to shower and change in peace before carrying me to his bed and joining me under the blankets.
We both drop into exhausted slumber.
I sleep until my subconscious registers his absence. With the curtains drawn, I can’t tell what time it is, and with everything I own most likely burned to ashes, I have no phone to check the time.
I push myself into a sitting position and curse as my back gives a familiar pinch. Blood gushes from between my legs. I rush into the bathroom, lock myself in the water closet, and hang my head in mortification at the mess I made of the pants I borrowed from Brennan.
Realizing I most likely stained the sheets, too, I press the heels of my palms to my eyes and take a deep breath but end up trapped in a fit of coughs.
Brennan knocks on the door.
“Let me in, Audrey,” he demands.
I wheeze and shake my head.
“No, I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“Still breathing. I’m fine, but can I borrow another pair of pants?”
His pause fills me with dread.
“Of course, baby doll, but tell me what’s wrong so I can help.”
I grit my teeth and massage my temples before forcing the words from my scorched throat.
“I started my period.”
Silence filters through the door for a moment.
“What do you need?”
Irrational anger snaps through me.
“You said you’d help me, not ask a million questions. Just bring me another pair of pants. I’ll figure it out.”
He sighs, and my imagination fills in him running a hand through his hair and fixing his glasses.
“I’ve never dealt with this before. Ever.” He surprises me with the admission. “You’re the only woman I would ever do this for, besides maybe our daughters, if we have any.”
An unexpected sob wrenches from my chest, launching me into another relentless round of coughing. I don’t even know why I’m crying.
The moment my fit ceases, I slouch and rest my head against the wall. Misery flows through me as I realize how horribly my body betrays me. Coughing and menstruation is a disgusting mix.
I cringe and force the damning words from my sore throat.
“I need menstrual pads. No tampons. Preferably overnight with wings. And acetaminophen.”
“On it.”
As his footsteps move away, I sag and dab at my eyes with toilet paper.
He cut ties with the family when I was twelve. I didn’t have my first period until I was thirteen, and I was devastated by it, so I can’t imagine how he feels right now.
I shouldn’t have snapped at him. He doesn’t know. He never needed to know. Most men never care. Hell, even women act like it’s the most embarrassing sin on the face of the planet.
Brennan returns.
“Unlock the door, baby doll, so I can hand you these pants.”
Not a chance in hell I’m letting him see me sitting on the toilet.
“No. Set it outside the door and walk away,” I demand.
He doesn’t move.
“I am not getting up until you leave the bathroom and lock the door behind you. My legs are going numb,” I snarl.
“Go ahead and take a shower while I make a trip to the store. I’ll be back when you’re done.”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as the thought of him grabbing sanitary pads off the shelf and hiding them in his coat until he reaches the register hits me.
Before I can call out to tell him I’ll make do with what I have—my stained panties and toilet paper—and buy them myself, the bathroom door shuts.
I sit in mute shock as the security system announces his exit from the penthouse.
I’ll never live this down.
I open the door and fight another surge of tears.
Sitting on the floor within arm’s reach is a fresh set of clothes, a packet of wet wipes, and a tray with acetaminophen, a chilled water bottle, a steaming cup of coffee with an overabundance of creamer, and several chocolate bars.
I use several wet wipes, wash my hands, move everything to the counter, take medicine, suck down half the coffee, pop a square of chocolate into my mouth, and do a quick clean up of the water closet before jumping into the shower.
By the time I peek into the bedroom, plastic grocery bags line the edge of the bed.
I stare in disbelief before shuffling forward and shifting through the piles of stuff.
Pads, women’s underwear, medicines, supplements, teas, chocolates, candies, heating pads, pajamas, and fluffy socks.
A lump forms in my throat.
Movement pulls my attention to the door.
Brennan walks across the room, gathers all the bathroom-specific items, and moves them either onto the counter or into the water closet. Without a word, he kisses my temple and leaves the room.
Afraid of my own emotions, I push them aside and lock myself in the bathroom.
When I open the door again, the bags no longer sit on the bed. Brennan strides in from the hall with a tray full of snacks, candies, a mug, the kettle, honey, and an assortment of teas.
Nausea grips me as my stomach cramps.
He sets the tray on the beside table and pulls me into his arms.
“Did you take something for the pain?” he asks.
I nod.
“Let me adjust the pillows and you can sit against the headboard and have some tea,” he suggests.
“I just want to curl up with a heating pad and sleep,” I croak through my swollen throat.
“It’s already Sunday evening, but if that’s what you need, that’s what we’ll do. The heating pad is plugged in,” he murmurs against the top of my head.
I sigh against his chest. It feels so good in his arms I don’t want to leave.
He lifts the blankets, guides me onto the mattress, and wraps the heating pad around my lower back. Expecting him to tuck me in and leave the room, I reach around to move it to my stomach, but he turns off the light, slips onto the bed, and pulls me flush against him.
I squeak when he grabs my leg, but he drapes my thigh over his hip, wedges his hand between our torsos, and rubs my stomach with gentle pressure.
A groan escapes my throat.
“That’s a pretty sound, baby doll. Relax and let me take care of you,” he rumbles.
I nod and bury my face against his chest.
I don’t deserve him, but I’ll cling to him for as long as he’ll let me.