Chase Me (Paris Nights Book 2)(57)

He caught it. A floppy dark brown bear with silky, curly fur and a big nose. Very huggable. He hugged it and made his way across to her bed. “Room for me on this?”

She eased to the side, trying to control her wincing. He eased onto his share of the narrow bed, trying not to wince, too. Her warm shoulder against his, her thigh brushing his, their calves touching. Alive. Vi was struggling not to cry.

Alive, alive, alive. Thank God.

He gave Elias a beseeching look. He knew Elias was his only hope. Brandon never remembered to be human.

“I need a cup of coffee,” Elias said. “Mademoiselle Lenoir, do you mind if we take a break and come back later?”

Vi shook her bent head, looking almost, for a second—and this was really scary—humble.

The other two men slipped out.

“Honey,” Chase said. He had no idea what else to say. How to encompass it. You’re alive. Thank God.

He wanted to wrap her up in his body and hold on as tight as he could, but neither of them were in any shape for squeezing.

He couldn’t even take her hand properly. Both her hands were hurt. He took the wrist of the nearest one, the one with the gauze, and gazed at the tips, calluses peeking out from the gauze. His eyes stung.

Vi said nothing. He could hear her breathing, shaky. She nestled closer into him, turning her head into his body and taking another deep breath. At least their two unwounded sides matched, so they could roll a little toward each other.

“I haven’t been able to see you,” she whispered. “They were always operating on me, or you. I’ve been in surgery three times, and they kept medicating me, and they said you were okay, but that’s not the same as seeing.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should never, ever have let you get hurt.”

She lifted her head. “Was that your job?” The sheen of tears in her eyes turned them very green, but they met his steadily.

Well…no, actually. They’d called the coast clear. Al-Mofti was caught—that was his job, and he’d done it—and the threat, they thought, cut off at its primary source. Sure, RAID had kept people in place around the city, including a discreet presence near her restaurant, for a couple of extra days, just on “better safe than sorry” principles. But personal protection of every civilian in Paris had never been his official job. France had a police force for that.

He was a bullet, not a shield. He protected civilians by taking out the villains. And as a bullet, someone always fired him. Called the target, sent him and his team after it.

“It’s always my job,” he said. “Vi…always.”

Sometimes dealing with civilians could be frustrating. Even though a part of Chase always loved civilians, there were many encounters with lazy, rude, entitled people that made a man wonder why the hell he was risking his life for them.

But Vi—never. As soon as he first saw her, he knew exactly why a man would risk his life for her.

“They’re my kitchens,” she said. “I think keeping people safe in them is my job.”

His mouth tensed. He shook his head. “It’s my job.”

Her mouth quirked just a little. “That’s not what your sexy friend said.” She nodded to the door. “He said it was RAID’s job. But that they thought the threat had been eliminated.”

Sexy? Trust Vi to hand him a lifeline. As if she knew he might drown in all those emotions like regret and anger and pain if she didn’t hand him humor. As if she knew him.

He took a breath, focusing on it. Yeah, he could use this. He could find laughter here. “My what friend? Brandon’s sixty. Do you have a father figure complex you never told me about? I can dye my hair gray and act bossy.”

She smiled a little, that sheen of tears in her eyes warming with more life. “The sexy one. You know, black hair, green eyes, an ironic way of looking at you? Looks as if his parents came from Algeria? Why didn’t you tell me you had hot friends? I have single girlfriends, you know.”

“Are you contemplating an orgy?” Chase considered. “You know, I’m not entirely sure I’d go for that in real life, but…”

Vi touched her splinted hand gently to his shoulder and gave him a feather-light pretend punch. Her gentleness was unsettling. Had this damn wound made him start looking fragile or something?

Or did it just matter that much to her that he not get hurt again?

He closed his hand around her splint, lifted her hand to his mouth, and kissed her two unsplinted fingers. His eyes closed a moment. Thank God you’re alive.

“Also, you already act bossy, Chase.”

He opened his eyes to find her watching him as if she was glad he was alive, too. God, he couldn’t believe he’d ever used fragile silk as a metaphor for his emotions around her. They were so powerful they turned him into fragile silk, shredding him ruthlessly, but that wasn’t quite the same.

“You can talk,” he said.

“I don’t act bossy. I am the boss.”

He dropped her splint to sink his hand into her hair as one of the few spots on her body it seemed safe to squeeze. “God, I love you.”

She closed her eyes a moment. “Chase. You should really be more careful about saying that.”

“Why?” he asked, baffled. When had he ever been careful about his life? They were lying here both with bullet wounds in them, and she wanted him to be careful about words?