Part 8 (1/2)

My eyes fly open. Ward is leaning over me, concern marking his face. In the background, the TV is still going.

”I'm sorry,” he says. ”I didn't realize you were asleep.”

”It's fine,” I force myself to smile. How many times have I said that today? I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine.

I sit up, remembering too late that I'm only wearing a towel. Ward's seen me naked a dozen times before, but for some reason, my bareness makes me feel more exposed tonight.

”Lie down,” he tells me gently. ”It's okay. I have something for you.”

I obey, but mostly because I'm too exhausted to do anything else. Part of me-a larger part than I want to admit-is almost sick with relief that he's come back to me. The rest of me is ashamed of myself. Maybe one day I'll be strong enough to do the right thing and send him away. Tonight, he's here.

I close my eyes and take another deep breath. The mattress sinks slightly as he sits on the bed beside me.

”This will be cold,” he warns me. ”But it'll help with the swelling.” I hear the clink of ice, then feel the frosty burn of an ice pack against my cheek.

I gasp at the sting. Ward pulls the ice away, but I open my eyes and catch his gaze.

”I'm okay,” I tell him. ”It just startled me.”

He nods and presses the ice pack against my face again. This time, I'm prepared. It still burns, but I keep my eyes locked on Ward.

He's watching me closely. Probably making sure he's not hurting me. His eyes are full of worry. But there's something else there, too-a calm. A steadiness. This is why he left, I realize. He needed to do something to make this better, something to help ease his guilt.

He doesn't say anything. But he holds the ice pack against my face with one hand and uses the other to push my damp hair away from my forehead. His fingers stay tangled in the strands, and his thumb brushes back and forth across my temple.

I close my eyes again. All of my good sense flies out the window when he touches me like that, when the pads of his fingers drift across my skin like I'm some beautiful thing to be explored and cherished. My nerves find new life under his hands, and every stroke of his thumb seems to tug directly on my heart. My pulse quickens. Even the pain of my swollen cheek seems to fade in comparison to the other strong and sudden reactions of my body.

His hands are rough with years of callouses, but his touch is tender. It's the touch of a man who longs to protect me, a man who longs to take away my pain.

When I open my eyes once more, he's still staring down at me. And there are still shadows in his eyes.

I reach up and slide my hands around his neck. He doesn't resist when I pull his face down to meet mine, but his lips are tentative against my own, like he's afraid he'll break me.

The next time I kiss him, I'm not as gentle. And I let my tongue slip into his mouth to tease his. I bite down on his lips. And there it is-a response. His lips press more firmly against mine, and then he's grabbing me.

But he only kisses me for a moment before he pulls back again. His face hovers just above mine, close enough that it's hard to see into his eyes.

”I don't want to hurt you,” he whispers.

”You won't hurt me,” I say. ”And if I remember correctly, you had no problem doing all sorts of things with me when you were hurt.” He had far more than a black eye after that fight in the spa at Huntington Manor, and that didn't stop us from enjoying each other.

I draw his face back down, and this time he reacts with a hunger-until he pulls back again.

”That was different,” he says, slightly breathless.

”Because I'm a girl?”

He shakes his head, but he's already set the ice pack aside. His hand moves to the exposed skin of my shoulder.

”It's different because it's you. Because I've never given a f.u.c.k if I was hurt. But you...”

A sudden, horrible thought occurs to me.

”What about you?” I say. ”Were you hurt today?”

My eyes scan his face, his arms, anywhere I can see his skin. How could I be so self-centered? So heartless? I was. .h.i.t once today. Ward was pummeled dozens of times. And thrown against newspaper racks. He might not have a black eye or any open wounds, but that doesn't mean he wasn't hurt.

”I'm okay,” he a.s.sures me. ”I've had a lot worse.”

But I'm not going to let him brush off the question like that. I sit up-making sure to clutch the towel across my chest-and stare him down.

”I want to see,” I say.

At first I think he's going to refuse, but then he sits back. Slowly, he pulls off his s.h.i.+rt.

There are bruises all over his chest. None as large or as puffy as the one on my face, but that doesn't matter. I'm sure they hurt just as much.

”It's nothing bad,” he insists.

Yeah, right. There are several bruises right across his ribs, and I reach out and touch one. Softly, of course, but he still winces. I look up at him.

”You can't tell me they don't hurt,” I say.

I rise to my knees and grab his shoulder, making him turn so I can see his back. It's just as bad.

”Geez,” I say. ”You're solid purple.”

”It's not that bad.”

”Don't go all 'tough guy' on me. I have eyes.” I reach out to touch another one to prove my point, but he catches my hand.

”What's with you and poking at bruises? I seem to remember you poking at my black eye, back when I had one.”

”I remember kissing your black eye.” I look up at him. ”Did that make it better or worse?”

He raises my hand to his lips.

”Better,” he murmurs against my fingers.

I lean forward and press my lips against one of the bruises on his chest.

”Much better,” he says, releasing my hand.

I smile to myself and brush my mouth against a second bruise. Then a third. I work my way carefully across his chest, leaving no patch of purple skin unkissed. Ward's hands come up and clutch my arms, but his grip isn't possessive or demanding. His thumbs slide against my skin.

I have to bend over to reach the bruises on his stomach, and when I do, my towel falls open. I let it. My lips touch the taut skin across his abs, flitting from injury to injury. When I reach the trail of dark auburn hair leading down into his jeans, I sit up again.