5. Easton #3
He unpacked a wound strip and pinched my brow, applying the sticky strip without much care. Not that I expected any pampering from Jace.
Part of me thought I had hallucinated him.
Perhaps I had hit my head hard enough to form fake memories of his visit and this entire evening.
It had all the makings of some frustrating, erotic dream.
I was all sweaty and barely clothed, and Jace had his hands all over me, examining the places where I hurt.
His gentleness at the beginning had to be fictional, but the roughness towards the end had all the trademarks of a fantasy.
“What is it?” Jace squeezed through his teeth.
“Huh?”
“You’re breathing all weird,” he said. “Does it hurt?” He put a hand near the bruise on my right side, feeling my ribs. The heat of his hand mixed with the pain of contact left me thoroughly confused about what I felt.
I pushed his hand away. “I’m fine.”
He nodded and stood straight in front of me.
I hesitated before looking up, touching a nerve somewhere in Jace.
He pinched my chin and lifted my head, forcing me to look into his eyes.
He was a mean guy. All the most beautiful ones were.
With that messy hair and dark, long eyelashes, he could have fooled you into thinking there was something sweet there.
But the cold fury in his eyes revealed his soul.
Jace glared at me, his hand trembling slightly as he held my face.
He examined it and gave the smallest nod.
“Now,” he said in a low, threatening voice.
Couldn’t he see I had no more space left for conflicts?
Couldn’t he just leave me alone? No. Of course not.
He inhaled calmly and cocked his head. “Who did this to you?” he asked.
Chills ran down my spine. This wasn’t a conversation for the sake of wasting our breaths. “No one,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“Which is it?” Jace asked, not letting me move my head back.
I took his wrist and yanked his hand away from my chin. “Thank you, Jace,” I said shortly. “But I don’t think the rest is any of your business.”
“Oh?” He crossed his arms on his chest again.
The T-shirt he wore had rips and small holes in places.
I didn’t think they were an aesthetic choice in his case.
It was well-worn, and the black had faded in places.
“Because I just saved your ass, Easton. The way I see it, I have an invested interest in seeing this through.”
My eyes drooped with tiredness, but I focused on his face, staring at him as clearly as I could. “I don’t want to be part of whatever thug life you think you’re living, Jace. I appreciate the help, but that’s the end of your involvement in this.”
He said nothing, but his gaze told me plenty. He wasn’t letting this go. Had he acquired this silly notion somewhere along the way that I needed his protection? Or, sillier still, that he could offer it to me?
I shook my head. “You need to stop following me.”
“You’re tired,” Jace said. “Get some sleep.”
He turned around and examined the room, then walked over to the armchair and sat down. The way he occupied a chair hadn’t changed in the seven years of separation. He slid low and deep into it, his legs spread wide and his elbows resting on the armrests, hands folded on his stomach.
“No,” I said with alarm. “You’re not watching me sleep.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Jace said. “I’m monitoring you in case you have a concussion.”
“Out of the question,” I said. I couldn’t let him stay in the room while I slept.
Not that I thought he would do something.
Hell, I didn’t think he was that lowly to mess with someone who’d just gotten a thorough beating.
Besides, I didn’t think he had ever been interested in more than making me visibly uncomfortable.
Me being asleep would give him no satisfaction when I couldn’t squirm and fidget for his entertainment.
But it felt too intimate to be watched by those dark brown eyes all night long.
What if I dreamed? What if I spoke in my sleep?
It wouldn’t have been the first time my mind concocted disturbingly vivid scenes of Jace and served them in the middle of my sleep.
Although he had been away for much of my life, I still dreamed about him sometimes.
I dreamed about what he was like now, older and infinitely more dangerous, and what I came up with in the depths of my sleep didn’t come close to reality.
“If you’re so sure, then drag me out,” Jace said. “I won’t resist.”
Yet I could barely lift my arms, let alone stand up.
With a grunt of protest, I yanked the bedsheet away, lay down in my damp, dirty sweatpants, and pulled the sheet all the way up my bare torso and out of Jace’s sight.
By the time I tucked the bedsheet under my neck, Jace’s attention was elsewhere.
No, he wasn’t interested in looking at me.
He had never been. What amused him was flirting, teasing, taunting.
He adored hinting that he knew the truth.
And for that, I hated him the most.