Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
Neal
“Are you hurt?” I asked, running hands down Sorcha’s arms and over her belly. “Did he hurt you at all?”
She seemed fine—thank goodness—and she shook her head.
“I’m okay,” she said. I could tell in an instant that was a lie.
“You’re bleeding,” I said, grabbing her right hand. The knuckles were split open, a splinter of glass embedded between her first two fingers.
“I can’t even feel it,” Sorcha murmured, staring wide-eyed at the blood dripping from her hand.
“That’s called shock.” I looked around, searching the shop for something, anything clean to use to help her.
There was a basin of water nearly black with grease, a few towels caked with filth I didn’t want to try and name.
So I pulled my handkerchief from Sorcha’s pocket and used it to carefully pull the sliver of glass from between her knuckles.
I grabbed a flask from Ansel’s discarded topcoat and doused her hand in whiskey.
She hissed at the contact. I pressed a kiss to her forehead, murmured an apology, then used my already-bloodied handkerchief to bind up her hand as best I could.
“You’ve never hit anyone before,” I said as I tied off the handkerchief.
“I’ve hit you,” Sorcha offered.
“Play fighting with your husband doesn’t count,” I corrected her.
“It didn’t feel like playing,” Sorcha muttered. I winced. In no world was I proud of how our time at the cabin had gone—much less how it had ended.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” I asked, pulling her into my chest. She nodded, silent. So that was a no, then. I could feel the exhaustion and self-doubt in her as she shuddered and curled in closer.
“I’ve got you,” I said gently, then bent and kissed her hair. “And I’ll clean out that cut better when we get back to the hotel. We’re okay.”
And then Ansel threw open the interior door, dragging the prisoner—still tied to a chair—behind him.
“I’ll meet you at the public library,” he said gruffly, then disappeared outside.