Chapter 12
Rafe
I’ve killed her.
Fuck, I’ve killed her. I should have held her tighter. Twisted our bodies so it was me who took the brunt of the fall. The portal exit crept up on me a little too quickly, my mind fogged with so much panic I wasn’t thinking.
Her lips part, a single breath and a garbled whimper.
“Thank the fucking fates,” I whisper, holding her close to my chest in a bundle on the floor. Blood trickles from the gash on her hairline, her skin already showing signs of bruising with the purple and green welt, swelling by the second.
I could have killed her. What was I thinking, dragging her into my panic like that.
Did I think she was going to steal from the King—It was a possibility.
Did I think she was going to be successful—Absolutely not.
Did I think she’d run back to me—Fuck no.
What would’ve been her back-up plan had I not been home when my portal showed me who was at my office door in Valandor.
Reckless.
Stupid, reckless woman.
She weighs barely anything in my arms as I shift her and lay her down on the couch. She’s lost weight since I first saw her several weeks ago. Maybe I should teach her how to finish her damn food.
Another gibberish whimper escapes her throat as I graze the bloody wound with a clean, wet rag.
Stitches—she needs stitches.
Working as quickly as I can before she wakes up, I close the wound with a stitch kit I pulled from my bug-out pack kept close to my portal wall. In case I need to escape the Chief Defender again, or anyone who may come for me.
The needle glides through her flesh before I pull the thread tight, not too tight according to the Healers’ Section. Blood trickles as I tie the last stitch and her body trembles, teeth chatters, and her damp dress sticks to her clammy skin.
She needs dry clothes.
“Fuck.”
I rush to my trunk at the bottom of my bed turfing through and find a clean, black tunic and some trousers I haven’t worn since my ass and thighs got too big for them. They look like they could fit, maybe with a belt.
“Don’t hate me for this,” I say, throwing a blanket over her, keeping my gaze up at the wooden rafters whilst rummaging beneath the blanket with a pair of sharp shears and snip away the fabric.
“I’m not looking. Can’t see anything, promise.”
In one smooth motion I cut straight up her dress. “Fuck, I grazed your breast. I’m so sorry. I forgotten about it already, I swear.”
I’m a godsdamned liar.
The soft swell of her breast now seared into the back of my hand. Forever ingrained in my memory. In my soul. Now I wonder what she looks like, feels like, tastes like. Sounds like.
Oh boy, I’m in trouble.
“Just your arms now.” I snip some more, her dress now cut from her wet body, and I pull, gently, keeping the blanket covering her entirely.
“Fuck, Lina. Your collarbones could cut glass.” Why is she skinny.
She’s not poor, I’ve seen her ordering at that café plenty of times.
She works for the King, he’s a reasonable man, and he pays his staff well.
Even pays the tab at the café and the local diner for any staff who wishes to eat there during their shifts. This makes no sense. Is she sick?
The black tunic glides over her head, her collarbones, her arms. The blanket shifts down the more I cover her with my clothes.
“Still not looking.” Reaching up the shirt, I weave her arms through.
“Right. Good. Now the trousers.”
What do I do now? Do I check for panties? Leave them on or off? Will wet panties be enough to make her sick?
No, no, no. Leave panties on.
But I don’t want her sick. I need nothing more on my already guilty conscience.
Ok, panties off.
I fumble beneath the blanket again, using the back of my hand to pat up her thighs until I feel the familiar texture of wet fabric. Hooking my index fingers beneath, I yank them down. Quick. Fluid. Smooth.
So smooth I’m quite proud of myself.
Fuck! I took the blanket down too. Her bare legs now on display.
“Don’t worry, I stopped looking. My eyes only reached your knees. I fucking promise you.”
This time I’m no liar. I stopped looking, swiftly throwing the blanket over her again.
“If had I breasts they’d be sweating. What’s the equivalent? Balls. Right, yep, my balls are sweating.” I ramble, wiping a brow.
Apparently, the average body has 2.5 million sweat pores.
And right now, each one of mine waters profusely.
Sweat drips down my back, the tickle of the moving droplets sends a shudder down my spine.
Not because re-dressing a very beautiful, albeit very unconscious, woman whilst I wear nothing but my undershorts, is hard graft, but because the fear of violating her in any way terrifies me.
I don’t want her to fear me, or loath me, or hate me when she wakes up. I want her trust. Her faith.
“Trousers and we’re done.”
She can’t hear me, so why the fuck am I talking to her.
The trousers are the easiest part, I didn’t graze not one inch of skin as I slid them up, feeling a little force when I clearly get to her bum. Wedging my foot under her lower spine, I haul her up enough to slip the trousers up the rest of the way.
“Sweet.”
It takes seconds to button them, the velvety skin of her stomach heat the pads of my fingers. There’s something beautiful about a woman’s stomach, the way their body tries to protect the womb by keeping a small layer of fat beneath the naval. Makes me want to sink my face into it.
Using the back of my hand, I lay it on Lina’s bare stomach for a moment, resisting the urge to stroke the soft swell of flesh.
“Good. You’re less clammy now.”
My arse plants itself down on the low-lying table in front of the couch, it’s at this moment I blow out the breath my lungs seem to have held onto the entire time of fixing her up.
Stubborn and spikey little Lina who steals and stalks… and doesn’t speak. She really is lovely. Full brows, thick lashes and a dainty nose. Even the scar beneath her chin calls for me to run a finger over it.
I want to run my fingers over all her scars, even the stretchmarks I noticed on her calves, tell her how beautiful she is with them and ask to explore her with my mouth to see what other treasures I can find.
I already know I want to run my lips across the dusting of freckles on her shoulders and press my face into the swell of her stomach.
Should I question if I only feel this way because of the picture Rafe painted? No, ridiculous, I noticed her way before he came to me.
Why can’t I fucking breathe. She’s married.
She is so, very much, fucking married.
Future Rafe has a lot to answer for.
How dare he recklessly come back to my time, feed me snip-its of information he has no right feeding, dangling the carrot of a life I didn’t ever dare to dream of, only for it to be ripped away the second the word ‘husband’ fell out of her mouth. Or book, I should say.
Where is the bastard now, when I need him most.