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“You’re sorry? This isn’t your fault.”
“Isn’t it?” His jaw ticks. No one is going to enjoy having their home invaded, but there’s a certain distaste in Tate’s tone that I can’t put my finger on. “They’re here because of me.” Tate levels his breathing before glancing at Ethan and strokes a finger down his cheek, shushing him softly. “Sorry about that, little fella. They’re all gone now.”
Ethan stops wriggling and stares up at Tate with big, round eyes, instantly charmed.
Harriet smiles at him reassuringly, and I suddenly feel very guilty about the shit I gave him at the distillery the other night.
Tate is still human, and these people have no respect for him. Someone broke into his hospital room and took photos while he was sleeping, for Christ’s sake.
“If you want to get him to sleep, use one of the bedrooms.” Tate scowls at my bloody hands and knees. “We’ll be in the kitchen. Stay as long as you want.”
A man on a mission, we’re off again. I bounce in his arms, wide-eyed at Harriet over his shoulder. Amusement glitters in her eyes.
“Are the police on their way?” I ask when we enter the kitchen.
“Yeah. They’ll get rid of the crowd and put a patrol car on the street. There’s nothing they can do if they stay on the sidewalk and behave.” He places me on the counter before retrieving the first aid kit from underneath the sink. Hands vibrating with rage, he struggles to open the box. I go to help, but he jerks away, eyes clamped shut. “Let me do it. Just…” He takes a breath. “Let me look after you.”
“Okay.” I let him go through whatever motions he needs and sit obediently.
He steps between my legs, forcing them open as he tends to my wounds. They’re not deep, and only after he cleans them with an alcohol wipe and applies some antiseptic cream do I speak again.
“Do you have to deal with that all the time?”
Eyes lowered, he shrugs. “Comes with the territory.”
“That doesn’t make it okay.”
He sighs. “Nothing I can do about it now. Guess I should’ve read the fine print before signing the dotted line, huh?”
My shoulders drop. “Just because I’m mad about that doesn’t mean I wish all of this,” I wave behind us, “on you. How do they know where we live? Do you think someone followed us?”
“They have their resources,” he grumbles. “This shouldn’t have happened. Maybe if I’d stayed away…”
I don’t know how to respond to that. He’s right, this wouldn’t have happened, but if he’d stayed away, he wouldn’t be taking care of himself. There’d be no one to make sure he ate three meals a day, took his meds, or rested.
“I’m glad you’re here. So you can recover.” I quickly throw in the little white lie, because while we’ve still tiptoed on eggshells the past few days, the desolate mood in the house has gone. Tate’s presence purges the loneliness lurking.
“Yeah. To recover.” He doesn’t believe me, and before I can say anything, he gently raises my hands and scowls at my injuries. “Can we lift the no kissing rule for ten seconds?”
“That isn’t a good idea.” My heart thunders. His strikes are increasing fast, but what else did I expect? Tate’s love language is touch.
He shakes his head. “Not your lips.” Though he stares at them possessively. “Give me ten seconds. After that, I’ll behave.”
I don’t believe him for a second, and yet my rejection sits eons away. What harm can ten seconds do?
“Okay…”
With painstaking slowness, he lowers his head and presses two tender kisses into each palm. He lingers on the left, counting in his head. Ten seconds stretch into an eternity with his lips caressing my skin. He’s thorough, making every nanosecond count, and my entire body vibrates. I don’t miss the way his fingers press into the space where my ring should sit, the tiny gesture carving a hole in my chest.
He pulls away, eyes heavy. “There. All better.”
Is it?
TWENTY-THREE
TATE
“Your MRI came back fine. As did your bloodwork. I think the doctor’s assessment in California was accurate—you were overdoing it, and if you missed a dose of your medication regularly, it explains the seizure.”
