Witness in the Dark (Love Under Fire #1)(32)

But why did she look so beaten? Why wasn’t she talking smack? Was her bruised shoulder worse than he suspected? Or the fall on those metal stairs? Or that last tumble onto the sharp rock? Her hand might need some stitches from that one.

“No thanks. I’m not hungry.” She bit her trembling bottom lip as he looked her over critically. Her cheeks were flushed, so she couldn’t have lost too much blood.

“Ice cream?” he offered. She was probably frozen clear to her bones. The thought of adding ice cream to the mix made him shiver.

“No. I just want to take a shower and go to bed,” she said, clearly trying to get away from him as quickly as possible.

“Okay.” He tilted his head to the side. “You all right?” He hadn’t planned to ask. He thought she’d mention her injury two seconds after she got done cheering and bragging about how well she’d managed to complete her mission. He didn’t understand her silence, but decided to see how it played out. Maybe she was embarrassed…though that didn’t make any sense.

Not many people could do what she’d done tonight. Especially without panicking and making things worse.

“I’m fine.” She half-turned, keeping her cut hand hidden and her bloody back to the wall as she sidled away to her room.

“Good night,” he called after her, puzzled as hell.

He would never profess to have vast knowledge when it came to women and their emotions. Sure, he took advantage of the fun parts of female company when they were offered, but his goal had always been to avoid the emotional bits as much as possible. He always made sure everyone knew what they were walking away with at the end of the ride—

A smile, and nothing more.

When he heard the water running in the bathroom, he bypassed the lock on her bedroom door and went in. If she was bleeding worse than he thought, he wanted to be close by if she lost consciousness.

Guilt began to trickle in as he picked up her bloody sweatshirt from the chair. Maybe he’d pushed her too hard. She was hurt, and it didn’t seem like she was going to let him help.

From a protection standpoint, he should have been elated that she was strong and didn’t need him. But something about it didn’t sit right with him.

He didn’t like feeling guilty, so he traded the emotion for one he was more comfortable with.

Anger.





Chapter Twenty-Two


Inside the bathroom, Sam locked the door and started to cry as she took off the rest of her filthy clothes. Her jeans were covered in mud and blood.

The gray sweatshirt had come off fairly easily. Her T-shirt, however, was sticking to the wound. She whimpered as she took a deep breath, tugged it away from the cut in one brutal movement, and pulled it over her head.

Her hand wasn’t bleeding anymore, but it was stiff and painful, which made it difficult to get her jeans off. Her blurry vision from crying wasn’t helping. So she told herself to get a grip, stopped the tears, and started swearing at her jeans until they finally surrendered in a filthy heap at her feet.

Stepping over the rim of the tub, the stream of water from the shower head made her wince. Not only did the cuts on her back and hand hurt like hell when the water touched them, her bruised shoulder ached from the heat, and every muscle in her body protested from all the exertion.

Regardless of the pain, she needed to clean her wounds. So, she lathered up the soap in her hand, clenched her jaw at the unholy sting, and steadied herself before quickly reaching around and scrubbing her back.

The pain was so intense all over her body, she had to sit on the edge of the tub for a long moment. Pink water swirled around her toes and went down the drain. She must have sat there for five minutes, but the water never ran clear.

When the rest of her was clean, she stepped out and picked up the towel, grateful for the dark burgundy color which would somewhat hide the blood stains.

After drying off, she wrapped it around the cut and tried to reach up to wipe the condensation from the mirror to check her back. Neither of her arms wanted to move above her shoulders.

“Come on, Sam. You have to do better than this. Do you want to die?” she asked her reflection.

Her answer was a resounding no.

She wiped the mirror with a grunt, and saw the medley of purple bruises on her shoulder from the gun. She turned slowly to see the cut.

Blood was still running down her back. Not good. She had to figure out how to staunch it.

She looked in the medicine cabinet for a bandage. Not that one bandage would do it. She’d probably need an entire box. It didn’t matter, there were none.

As she rooted around in the bottom of the vanity, she found a roll of black electrical tape. She took a pile of tissues from the box on the back of the toilet and folded them in half. In a painful Twister-style maneuver, she managed to affix the makeshift bandage to the wound. She put on a pink camisole and another black T-shirt before sitting on the edge of the tub so she could unwrap her hand and examine that cut.

This one wasn’t nearly as deep as the one on her back, but it had also started bleeding again. She closed her eyes and hung her head. How the hell was she going fix this?

Someone banged on the door, scaring her half to death.

Shit.

Busted.





Chapter Twenty-Three


“Get out here. I need to talk to you,” Garrett yelled through the bedroom door.