Chapter 9 Tender Damage
NINE
TENDER DAMAGE
TROY
Everything hurt. My ribs screamed when I tried to sit up. My face felt swollen and tight. My kidney throbbed with every breath, sending sharp reminders that last night's beating hadn't been a nightmare.
The house felt quiet in that specific way that meant I was alone.
I lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince my body to cooperate. The light coming through the curtains was soft and golden, late afternoon maybe. I had slept the whole damn day away.
When I finally managed to swing my legs over the side of the bed, I noticed the floor was clean.
My clothes were gone.
The jeans I had kicked off before passing out, the shirt I had tossed in the corner, the socks. All of it had disappeared.
Except for the lace.
The black lace thong I had worn were still there on the floor where I had left them, a small dark puddle of delicate fabric against the hardwood.
Declan had been in here.
He had come in while I was sleeping and picked up my shit like I was some kid who couldn't clean up after himself. Had grabbed everything else, every piece of clothing scattered around the room.
But he had left the lace.
A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth despite the pain in my split lip.
He had seen them. Had to have seen them. There was no way he had missed a pair of black lace underwear sitting right there on the floor. And he had made the deliberate choice to leave them behind, to take everything else but not touch those.
There was a sick and twisted part of me that got off on that. On the idea of Declan walking into this room, seeing me sprawled out in nothing but the black boxer briefs I was still wearing, and then spotting the lace on the floor and having to deal with whatever the hell that did to him.
I liked wearing lace. Had for years. It had started as a dare, some guy I had been hooking up with who thought it would be funny to see me in a pair of his girlfriend's underwear. But then I had put them on and realized I didn't hate it.
I liked the way they felt. Soft and delicate against all the hard edges I carried around.
I liked the contrast. The way something so fragile could sit against skin that was scarred and bruised and covered in ink.
I liked that it was mine. A secret I got to keep, something no one else knew about unless I wanted them to.
It was control in a way I couldn't explain. A way of owning something private, something soft, in a life that didn't leave much room for either.
And maybe it was fucked up, but I liked the way it made me feel. Dangerous and vulnerable at the same time. Like I was daring someone to say something, to call me out, to make it a problem.
No one ever did.
Declan hadn't touched them. Hadn't picked them up with the rest of my clothes. Had left them there like they were something he couldn't bring himself to deal with.
I wondered what he had thought when he saw them.
The smirk faded as I pushed myself to my feet, moving slow and careful because fast movements made my vision swim. My ribs protested every shift, every breath, but I gritted my teeth and made it across the room.
I dragged myself to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.
My face was a disaster. A bruise was blooming across my jaw, dark purple and ugly. There was a cut above my eyebrow still crusted with dried blood. My lip was split, swollen on one side. I looked like I had gone ten rounds with someone who knew exactly where to hit for maximum damage.
Which wasn't far from the truth.
I splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth. Tried to look less like a crime scene and failed spectacularly.
The stairs were a challenge. Each step pulled at my ribs in ways that made me grit my teeth and move slower than I wanted. By the time I made it to the kitchen, I was sweating and nauseous and desperately in need of coffee.
I hadn't bothered with clothes because the house was empty and putting on a shirt sounded like torture when even breathing hurt.
The coffee maker was exactly where it had always been. Same brand Declan had been buying for years. I got it started, leaned against the counter while it brewed, and tried not to think about the masked man who'd beaten the shit out of me with professional precision.
Someone wanted me gone. Wanted me scared enough to run back to London.
The question was who. And why now.
The coffee finished brewing. I poured a cup, black and strong, and took the first sip just as I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned.
Declan stood in the kitchen doorway, still in his work clothes, looking at me like he'd forgotten how to form words.
His eyes tracked down. Took in the fact that I was standing in his kitchen wearing basically nothing. Traveled back up to my face, lingering on the bruises I couldn't hide.
“Thought you'd be at work,” I said. It came out rougher than I meant it to.
“Came back for lunch.” His voice was careful. Controlled. The way it got when he was trying not to react to something. “Didn't think you'd be up yet.”
“Yeah, well. Surprise.”
We stood there for a long moment. Me half-naked and beaten to shit. Him fully dressed and staring like he didn't know whether to yell or leave or do something else entirely.
“Coffee?” I offered finally. Because standing here in tense silence while wearing nothing but underwear felt worse than making small talk.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
I poured him a cup and handed it over. Our fingers brushed on the exchange and I felt it travel up my arm like a shock.
Declan took a drink and kept his eyes on my face instead of anywhere else. “You sleep okay?”
“Well enough.”
“Liar.”
I shrugged and regretted it immediately when my ribs protested.
He set his coffee down and moved toward the fridge. “You eat yet?”
“No.”
“Sit down. I'll make food.”
“You don't have to—”
“Troy. Sit down.”
The tone left no room for argument. I sat at the kitchen table and watched him pull out eggs and bread and butter from the fridge.
He cooked the way he did everything. Quiet, competent, not wasting motion. Cracked eggs into a pan, got toast going, moved through the space like he owned it because he did.
I sat there drinking coffee and trying not to notice how good he looked. How his shirt stretched across his shoulders when he reached for the cabinet. How his forearms flexed when he flipped the eggs. How his jeans fit in ways that made my mouth go dry.
I needed to stop. Just fucking stop looking at him like that.
“Where'd you go yesterday?” he asked without turning around.
“Out. Rode around the city.”
“On the bike.”
“Yeah.”
“When'd you get a bike?”
“Yesterday. Bought it, rode it, came home.” I took another drink of coffee. “Didn't realize I needed to file a report.”
“You don't. Just making conversation.” He plated the food, brought it over, set it in front of me. Eggs over easy, toast with butter, exactly how I'd eaten it as a kid. “Eat.”
I picked up the fork and took a bite. The food was good.
Declan sat across from me with his own plate, watching me eat with that steady attention that made my skin feel too tight.
“You gonna tell me what happened?” he asked finally.
“What do you mean?”
“The bruises, Troy. You look like you got into a fight.”
“Maybe I did.”
“Did you?”
I set my fork down and looked at him across the table. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah. It matters.”
“Why?”
“Because you're hurt. Because I need to know if someone's coming after you. Because I—” He stopped. Started again. “Because I care what happens to you whether you want me to or not.”
The honesty in his voice hit harder than any punch. Made my chest feel tight in ways that had nothing to do with broken ribs.
“Someone jumped me,” I said finally.
Declan went very still. “When?”
“Yesterday. After I bought the bike.”
“Troy—”
“What was I supposed to do? Come home and cry about getting my ass kicked? You would've loved that.”
“That's not—” He cut himself off, jaw tight, clearly fighting the urge to start an argument neither of us had energy for. “Let me see.”
“See what?”
“The damage. How bad is it?”
“I'm fine.”
“You can barely move without wincing. That's not fine.” He stood up and moved around the table toward me. “Let me see.”
The smart move was to tell him to back off. To remind him I wasn't fifteen anymore and didn't need him checking me for broken bones like I was some kid who couldn't handle myself.
But I was tired. Everything hurt. And some part of me that I had been trying to ignore wanted his hands on me even if it was just to patch up the damage.
So I didn't argue. Just sat there while he crouched beside my chair, close enough that I could smell his cologne mixed with sweat from work.
His fingers touched my jaw. Careful. Gentle. Tilting my face toward the light so he could see the bruise properly.
“This looks bad,” he said quietly.
“Feels worse.”
He moved to the cut above my eyebrow and examined it. “This should've been stitched.”
“Didn't have time.”
“It's going to scar.”
“I've got plenty of scars. One more won't matter.”
His hand dropped from my face and moved lower. Fingers brushing over my collarbone, down to my ribs where the worst of the bruising was. I felt him freeze when he saw it.
“Fucking hell, Troy.”
The bruise spread across my left side, dark purple and mottled with yellow at the edges. Three distinct impacts where the masked man had methodically destroyed my kidney.
“It looks worse than it is,” I lied.
“Bullshit. This is internal damage. You could have ruptured something.”
“I didn't.”
“You don't know that.”
“I'm still here. Still breathing. That's good enough.”
He looked up at me. I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing had gone shallow.
“Stay here,” he said. “I'm getting supplies.”
He stood and disappeared into the bathroom. I heard him opening cabinets, gathering whatever medical shit he kept on hand.