Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(72)

Luca yanks the passenger door open so hard, I worry it’s going to come off its hinges. And yet, his hands are unspeakably gentle as he deposits me in the seat, cradling my head with care and placing Fenway on my lap. He’s not even winded from running with me in his arms.

“Stay here,” he barks gruffly. “You will not move from this car without me, do you understand?”

I nod. My voice is tremulous. “Yes.”

The door slams and he’s gone, the locks clicking firmly behind him. I turn my head to watch him disappear into the night, racing back toward the men who jumped me. My heart is slamming against my ribs so hard I think it might leap from my chest. My fingers sift into Fenway’s fur, hugging him close.

He whines lowly.

“I know, boy,” I whisper, the words shaky and thin. “I’m worried about him, too.”



As it turns out, our worries are for naught.

Less than a minute after leaving us, Luca climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. We race away from the curb and barrel down my street, the air thrumming with barely-leashed violence.

“What happened to them?” I ask, almost scared to know the answer.

“Gone,” he grits out. “Took off.”

Shit.

That means they’re still out there, somewhere. That they’ll very likely try again, in the future.

The thought shakes me to my core.

“Where are we going?” I whisper when Luca takes an unfamiliar turn.

“To the fucking hospital,” he snaps. “You’re hurt.”

“I don’t need to go to the hospital.” I look at him, at his hands curled around the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, at his clenched jaw and furious eyes, and realize he’s still consumed by rage from the fight. “Luca.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Luca, I said I’m fine. I don’t want to go to the hospital.”

“Too fucking bad.”

“Luca…” My voice gets soft. “Please. I think the bleeding’s already stopped and—”

“You a doctor?”

“No.”

“Nurse?”

“No, but—”

“Then you don’t get to have an opinion.”

Anger sparks to life inside me. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful you just saved me from some seriously scary dudes, but that does not mean you get to order me around.”

His eyes cut to mine in the darkness. Behind the rage, behind the unmistakable obstinance… I’m stunned to see fear in their depths.

Luca Buchanan, who frequently steps into octagons and takes on actual giants without blinking twice, who grew up in foster homes and never lets anyone rattle him, who I’m damn near certain is half superhero… is afraid.

For me.

Because of me.

It’s an awful sight. I hate seeing it in his eyes. It haunts me, even after he looks away.

Shaking slightly, I reach out and place my hand on his thigh. The muscle is corded with tension.

“Luca.”

He looks over at me again.

“Please, just take me home to your place. After Mimi…” I swallow. “I hate hospitals.”

Something flashes in his eyes when I make that admission. The truck’s speed slows somewhat, and his thigh relaxes a tiny bit beneath my hand. He doesn’t speak until we stop at a red light a few moments later. I hear him suck in a steadying breath.

“You’re mine, Delilah. I take care of what’s mine. That means, when you’re hurt, I do everything in my power to protect you. In this case, that means getting you checked out by a doctor. Even if you don’t want to. Even if dragging you there makes you pissed as hell at me.”

“If the bleeding starts again, or I start feeling sick, I promise not to fight you. I promise I’ll go.” I hold his stare. “But I don’t need medicine. Right now, in this moment, what I really need are strong arms around me. A warm cup of tea. I need to feel safe. I need… you.”

His eyes flare.

“Luca.” My voice is pleading. “Please… take me home.”

He pauses, considering. “You start to feel even the slightest bit dizzy…”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

He shakes his head as his hands tighten on the wheel. He doesn’t look happy about it, but at the next intersection he turns the truck around and heads toward the North End.

We don’t speak for the rest of the ride, both caught up in our own thoughts. Fifteen minutes later, we pull up outside his building. He’s out of the cab, around my side before I even have time to remove my seatbelt. Taking Fenway from my arms, he slings the doggie bag over his shoulder, then helps me down to the sidewalk.

“I can carry you,” he offers quietly.

“I’m fine. I promise.”

He slips his arm around my waist anyway, and supports most of my weight as we walk inside. I must admit, despite my brave face, I’m happy for the help. My head aches, along with my back and bruised tailbone. My lungs are sore from the strike to my chest. And, beyond that, I feel emotionally rattled. As if every shadow we walk by is concealing monsters, who’ll jump out and attack when I least expect it.

As we step into his apartment the fear ebbs a bit, until my fists uncurl and I can breathe again. I feel infinitely safer here than I would staying alone in my apartment, tossing and turning on a leaky air mattress with nothing to defend myself should my attackers decide to pay another visit besides a puppy who hasn’t even figured out how to bark properly, yet.