49. Harper
FORTY-NINE
HARPER
"Come on, Angel," I muttered for like the millionth time. "Either you carry me out there, or I’m walking my damn self."
Angel had gone from hating my fucking existence to doting over me like I might break at any moment. I couldn’t blame him—I took two bullets to the body, maybe more, and I lost a lot of blood. But I could hear Nash on the other side of the door, and he’d been avoiding me for the last week. The whole time since I’d been shot, he’d made himself scarce any time I was awake.
I wasn’t oblivious to the cold shoulder. It stung more than I cared to admit.
Angel, on the other hand, was equal parts concerned for my health and well-being, and irritated at himself for giving a shit. His latest argument with me was over whether or not I was healed enough to walk around the damn living quarters.
He wasn’t a fan of the idea of moving me at all, it seemed. His pout was childlike, but very on-brand for him, past or present. Every time I sat up, he shoved me gently back down, grumbling about not straining myself.
I had had enough. I was injured, not dead. And sure, it still hurt a bit, but he didn’t need to know that.
"You’re a gunshot victim, Harper," he groused as I reached for him, growling when he ducked out of reach. "I didn’t say you were an invalid. But fuck me, can you maybe take better care of yourself? You do nothing but get into trouble. You’re like a magnet for the shit."
"I didn’t know you cared, Angel," I spat, still a little salty about the way things ended between us. "You didn’t even wanna see me when I left."
"Just lay there and be a good patient, or Rowan’s going to have both of our heads."
If he thought a change of topic was gonna stop me ? —
—he didn’t know who he was dealing with.
"Angel, I’m going to say this one more time. If you don’t help me out of this bed, I will help myself, and if you think you can stop me, there’s a knife in the kitchen I’d love to acquaint you with."
I watched the violet flash on his face as those gorgeous eyes rolled and he tossed his ponytail over one shoulder. "You’re impossible."
"Thanks," I teased as he leaned down to slide an arm under my knees, and another behind my back. "It’s a gift."
I couldn’t hide the wince when he lifted me completely off the bed, and his scowl told me he wasn’t pleased, but my hands wrapped themselves around his neck and refused to let go, so with a heavy sigh, he carried me to a nearby chair, where he deposited me with a gentle grunt and a stern glare that told me if I tried to move, he’d kick my ass.
"I’m going to change the sheets. You’re going to stay right here and not move." He frowned as I put on the fakest smile I could manage, seeing right through me. "I mean it, Harper. Don’t be a brat with me. Rowan unfortunately decided I was in charge while he was gone, which means what I say goes."
"Yeah, and you always say I’m not ready." I scowled, crossing my arms in defiance. "I’m a damn adult, Angel. I’ve been in this bed for a week, and I’m done sitting still. Either you help me up, or I’m getting up on my own."
"Now you listen here, brat," he snarled, towering over me with a hand on either side of the chair, clutching the armrests as I shrunk into the cushions. "You’re not going to give me any more trouble, or I’m going to make sure you’re strapped to that bed next time I put you in it."
"I want to see Nash," I demanded, nose to nose with him .
"Well, Nash doesn’t want to see you," he snapped back, and just like that, my heart broke.
I could feel it happening in real-time like pieces of it were flaking away, shattered by the arrow dead center, shot from Angel’s bow. His face froze in that hesitant, angry scowl he’d been plastering on as of late, but as mine crumpled and a tear formed in the corner of my eye, he turned his back on me and sighed.
"Listen, I didn’t mean that, Harper?—"
"It’s true, though. Isn’t it?" I deflated as he moved to strip the bed, wishing I wasn’t still so injured so I could be like I used to and confront the bastard instead of hiding here feeling sorry for myself. "If he wanted to see me, he’d have done so. It’s not like I can go anywhere."
Angel swooped down upon me, deserting the half-assed bedding, his eyes flashing deep violet, just like when he was angry. "Don’t you start that shit. I’m not about to listen to you feel sorry for yourself because of him."
"I’m not feeling sorry for myself," I tried lamely, but even I could see the truth for what it was. "I’m feeling lonely." He cocked a brow at me, and I cleared my throat to amend the comment. "Present company excluded, of course. It’s just, there’s only so much of your overbearing self-hatred and caring I can handle at once."
"Rowan comes to see you," he pointed out, but it wasn’t the same.
I needed to see Nash.
Rowan thought I was asleep the other day and had a nice conversation about Nash’s self-destruct meter rising every day and how he was afraid he’d go off the deep end. I needed to see him. I needed to know how bad it was. And if it was because of me, I wanted to know.
Even if it would hurt .
"Take me out there, Angel," I tried again, but he made himself busy with the sheets instead, blatantly ignoring me. So I waited until he slipped into the bathroom and closed the door, and then I was up, wincing at the new strain on my wounds, turning the knob of the door slowly so Nash wouldn’t hear me coming and flee.
I found him in the commons, his back to me, hair a shaggy mess, with a knife in his hands. He had it held up by his face, and for a split second, I thought he might be trying to kill himself.
So of course I bum rushed him in a panic, knocking the knife out of his hands as we tumbled to the floor, my pain renewed with a fervor.
"Fuck, what did you have to go and do that for, ya— Harper?"
He blinked up at me as I straddled his waist, staring at the handiwork he’d been working on with the blade.
"Nash, what the fuck?"
His lips were spread in a grimace, but that permanent smile was fresh, blood caking around the scabbing wound where he’d reopened it, apparently. It looked like it was in various states of healing, which confused me even more.
Little by little, it seemed to dawn on him that I was here, and not one of his brothers. Slowly, his hands rose from the floor, gripping me by the biceps as I took it all in.
The fresh blood. The look of resignation in his eyes. The blade. The wound, which still had a few stitches left in it, that he’d apparently been working on taking out when he was interrupted.
He’d done this to himself.
Why?
"Nash," I breathed, my tears falling like rain now. I was so overwhelmed just seeing him again that it all hit me like a freight train and left me reeling, off the tracks, and very unstable.
He growled, shoving me off him—gently, though—as he rose from the floor in search of the blade. "You should go back to Angel. I’m not in the mood to deal with you."
I reached for the blade and managed to snag it a second before he did. And if I thought my shock couldn’t increase, seeing my nickname etched into a solid black blade in the same handwriting I used to have in high school, well, that’d definitely do it.
"How long have you had this?" I asked, knowing damn well their father threw all my belongings out as soon as he had me ‘killed.’ When Nash didn’t answer, the rage built inside me, hating that something as inconsequential as a knife could set me off like this.
I stood, wincing the whole way, free hand on my side as the stitches pulled against my skin. I sucked in a breath as Nash inched closer, reaching for the blade as I jerked it just out of his reach.
"Gimme the knife, Harper," he growled, the monotone, emotionless voice only serving to piss me off more.
"Take it from me if you’re brave enough," I replied crassly, dangling the blade out of his reach.
"I’m not in the mood to play games, Harper," he droned, wariness tinting the words that fell from his lips.
Harper, Harper, Harper. Where did the playful Harpie Girl go? Where did the old Nash hide himself? Why did he have to be so damn much like Angel, burying emotions under this stupid fucking mask?
The mask of a killer. A skull carefully drawn onto his visage to hide the ugliness he perceived himself to be wholly comprised of.
"Good thing I’m not, either." With the words finally out in the air, I grabbed him by the collar and jammed my tongue down his throat, forcing him to take me in his arms or let us both fall over in my intensity.
I didn’t want to wait for him to decide he was done with his little pity party. I didn’t care about the answers to questions I didn’t even care to ask yet.
I wanted him to stop hating himself. Wanted him to realize he wasn’t a lost cause. I wanted to let him know he could let people in, and they wouldn’t hurt him.
And I wanted him to know he wasn’t as slick as he thought he was.
His hands cradled my body against his, and it was like watching him awaken from a deep dream. First, those hands spanned across my ass and lower back, tugging me closer, gently guiding me. Then, his lips moved against mine, his tongue tangling with mine in a desperate, needy, staccato rhythm that mimicked what I imagined sex with Nash would be like.
Fast. Rough. Erratic. Desperate.
Perfect.
I didn’t blink when Angel came striding angrily into the commons yelling at us for being so stupid, yelling at me for not listening. Nash lifted a hand and flipped him off as he walked me backward to his room, kicking the door closed with a bang before he locked it behind him.
This was it. This was the moment we would finally open up to each other, and something would connect. We could click like we’d been made to, and I could have the man back who’d strummed his guitar like a pro in high school, his long fingers drawing notes from the taut strings like I imagined they drew moans from the women he touched.
And just like that, the burning spike of jealousy turned me on my head, and I was now reeling with Nash, running through emotions like a flip book, no time to process the first one before another came along and shoved its way in.
"Harpie girl," he whispered against my lips, his teeth gently nipping my tongue.
"Shh, less talk, more of—well, whatever this is," I retorted, putting a finger against his lips, needing him to realize he couldn’t avoid me forever. "We can talk later. You’ve been putting me off all this time; what’s one more minute?"
His laugh traveled through my body, we were so close. "Minutes? Harpie girl, I don’t plan to let you out of my bed for days."
A shiver of anticipation shook me painfully, and I gasped involuntarily, hating that I was now worried he might not fuck me because I was still injured.
If that didn’t tell you how fucked up my priorities were?—
"You sure you’re up for this?" he asked me, slowly walking me back until my calves hit his bed. "You’re still recovering."
As if on cue, Angel started banging on Nash’s door, shouting things about ‘not helping me when I pull my stitches out’ and ‘you’re both stupid for this,’ but I didn’t give a damn. He could bang on that door for the rest of the night for all I cared. I needed this. Nash needed this. My pain was second to healing the man who’d always helped me in the past.
"Don’t worry about my condition," I smart-mouthed, glaring daggers at him as I still clutched the customized one in my left hand. "That’s Angel’s schtick. You’ve never been a carer, Nash. And you’re hurting." I placed the hand with the blade atop his chest, drawing a heart over the place where his would be if he still had one. "Let me hurt with you this time."