Chapter 47
Chapter Forty-Seven
When I peek into Linnea’s room, a nurse is packing up wound care supplies and wrappers.
A stapled packet of what I’m assuming are discharge instructions rest on the side table.
Linnea’s wrists are wrapped in stark white gauze and her cheeks are pale, with a bandage covering the abrasion on her left cheekbone.
I step into the room as the nurse asks Linnea if she needs help getting dressed.
“No, thank you,” Linnea says as I beeline for her bedside.
As the nurse leaves, closing the door behind her, I press a kiss to Linnea’s temple. “How are you feeling?”
A flicker of a smile plays across her face. “Tired. A little hungry.” She runs two fingers across the edge of the bandage above her left eyebrow. “Ready to put everything behind me.”
I settle on the edge of the bed and slide my left palm under her right, the warmth from the contact sending another wave of relief through me. She’s okay. She’s safe. I know it’s not that simple—she’s been through a lot—but for now, it’s enough.
“How’s Dad?” she asks.
“Not bad for someone who took a bullet to his femur then hiked a couple of miles.”
She laughs, then winces in pain.
“Sorry.” I press a kiss to her hair. She smells like earth mixed with antiseptic, another reminder that she doesn’t belong here.
A soft sigh leaves her lips. “Sofie wants me to stay with her, but I really just want to go home.”
Sofie hugged the stuffing out of me earlier when she thanked me for saving her sister and helping Rowdy escape. I got to meet Jesse too, and his spunky daughter, Skye. It’s great their family is so tight. I’d be lying if I wasn’t a little bit envious. “Will you let me take care of you?”
Linnea worries her bottom lip. “I was thinking, maybe you could come stay at our house. Just for a few days, until I’m getting around better?
And to help with Dad when he comes home?
Jesse and Sofie will be around, of course, but it’s going to be a lot, and they have their own families to look after too.
There’s room for Jasper in our barn, so you can have him close. ”
She’s asking me for help? She’s choosing me? I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’d like that.”
Another soft laugh followed by a wince. “Don’t get too excited. I’m probably not going to be very good company.”
I kiss the back of her hand, a smile tugging at my lips. “What if I’m not looking for good company?”
She tries to scowl but it turns into a smile, and it’s cute as fuck. “Let’s get out of here.”
I reach for the stack of clothes Sofie brought. We start with underwear and a pair of sweatpants, going slowly to minimize her discomfort. Seeing the big bruises blooming on her thighs and kneecaps cracks my chest wide open, emotions stinging my nose and eyes.
“Those fucking bastards,” I grit out.
Linnea touches my bandaged knuckles. “It’s okay.”
I shake my head. “It’s not.”
“But it’s over.” Her eyes turn glassy with tears.
“That’s for fucking sure.” I’m not one bit sorry her tormenters are dead, but it’s a special kind of melancholy knowing they tormented those children for as long as they did. That an FBI agent lost her life trying to rescue them.
I trade Linnea’s grippy hospital socks for a set of plush wool ones, being careful of the bandages on her feet. Though the mostly superficial wounds will heal, it reminds me once again of her courage and grit, and the awe I feel for this woman.
When we get to putting on the fleece shirt, I can’t help my reaction to the bruising on her side. I lean over and cradle the side of her face, resting my forehead against hers. “This should have never happened.”
“I’ll heal,” she manages.
I press a kiss to her forehead. “I wish I could hold you. I wish I could make it better.”
“A strawberry mango smoothie would make it better.” Her lips twitch with a hint of a smile.
I close my eyes and kiss her gently, savoring the plush softness of her lips. “As you wish, Linnea Jaymes.”
Because I drive slowly to avoid jostling her too much, and we have to stop at the pharmacy for concussion-approved pain meds and antibiotics, Linnea finishes her smoothie by the time we pull up to the house.
Stubborn as she is, I convinced her to take one of the pain meds.
With all the rain and warmer temperatures, her driveway is a muddy mess, plus her feet are too injured for walking, so I carry her—carefully—inside.
“Shower? Please?” she asks as we reach the hallway to the bedrooms.
“You should rest first,” I counter.
“I have mud in my hair and I smell like bleach.”
“Fine,” I growl. “But I’m coming in too.” Though I was able to put on dry clothes from the kit I keep in my truck, a shower sounds pretty fucking awesome.
She rests her head against my chest. “Okay.”
Under the warm water, I wash her hair, lathering and scrubbing gently while she braces off the wall with one hand and tilts her head back.
I drink in her dark lashes against her pale cheeks and the petal pink of her lips, her freckled shoulders and the slope of her neck.
That she’s trusting me like this is stitching together the pieces of my heart that have been hanging by a thread, thanks to this ordeal.
By the time I get her into bed, her eyes are droopy. “Stay, for a little while?”
Like I had plans to be anywhere else but right here by her side. I snuggle up behind where she’s resting on her injured side, my hand on her thigh, until her breaths lengthen and her body stills.
“Did you get the test results back?” she asks just when I think she’s asleep, her tone soft.
“Yeah. All good.” The message arrived via email just before we left the hospital, signed by someone in HR. Not that I’m surprised, but it’s a relief.
She weaves her fingers with mine. “One more thing we can leave in the past.”
I kiss her shoulder and I’m about to tell her to rest, when she says, “I don’t want to quit.”
“Your job?”
“Yeah. But I need help talking to Keith.”
I caress up and down her hip and shift a little closer to her, so her body’s heat radiates into my chest and thighs. “Done.”
Before my day went sideways yesterday, I printed out IDFW’s sexual harassment policy and highlighted the sections where Keith could use a refresher.
I also researched the fine print regarding our agency’s hierarchy, and nowhere did it indicate that Linnea should be Keith’s subordinate.
He may have seniority, but their involvement in policymaking and projects is supposed to be collaborative, equal.
Linnea can use what I found or not, but I wanted it handy in case she decided to confront him.
She settles a little deeper into the pillow. “Okay.”
I kiss her hair again, my lips lingering for a moment so I can drink her in. Drink in the scent of her, the perfection of her body curved against mine. “Rest, precious.”