Page 5 of Ruthless Protector

I shooed him out of my room, like an unwelcome stray cat, and pulled the door closed behind me. The last thing I wanted was to wake Tilly, but then I doubted anything could wake her at this point. My niece slept heavily, always had.

I planted my hands on my hips and scowled up at him. “What the fuck, man?”

His lips twitched.

Awesome. I was throwing off my best get-the-fuck-lost vibes and this asshole found me amusing. I went back downstairs and he followed. “You did your good deed for the day, you can leave now.”

The smirk vanished. “Sit down.”

My spine straightened, and I wondered if it was humanly possible to actually spit fire. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re bleeding’ every-damn-where. Sit the hell down and let me take a look at your knees.”

I glanced down. Well, shit, I must have scraped them up worse than I thought. “I can take care of it.”

He ignored me, walked into the kitchen and opened the cupboard under the sink, pulling out the first-aid kit I stored under there. He’d obviously seen it when he unblocked the pipe a couple months ago. He turned to face me and the determination I saw there had me taking a step back.

He froze, and then the guy kind of slouched, like he was trying to make himself smaller, holding his hands up in front of him. All I’m-not-armed-I-surrender, or whatever.

“Willa, I just want to take a look at your knees, that’s it.”

Jesus, he thought I was scared of him. I didn’t want him to think that. I wasn’t scared, I just didn’t want him to touch me, for several reasons, but I also didn’t want him to think…

“That guy that came here tonight? Is he your ex? Has he hurt you before?”

That.

I took a steadying breath. No, my ex was a different species of pond scum than Trent. All the shit Evan had spouted about loving me had been nothing but lies. I should have known better, but I’d obviously needed one final kick in the guts to get the message. You couldn’t trust anyone. You just…couldn’t.

I looked over at Jude. I didn’t need this guy in my business, and I got the feeling that’s exactly what would happen if I shared anything with him. I didn’t want him sticking his nose in, making himself feel good, like some great big, muscular do-gooder.

Trent was a low piece of shit, but I could handle him on my own. I didn’t need a man for anything, certainly not this. But I wasn’t getting rid of him—the guy was an ex-cop for Christ’s sake—and if he thought I was a battered woman in need of rescuing, he’d be all over that shit like white on rice.

So, I relaxed my stance and forced a laugh. “Nope, to all of the above.” I shrugged and plonked down in one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “Right, let’s get this over with. If you want to play nursemaid, big guy, who am I to argue.”

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed a little.

“So, you’ve fixed a few scrapes before?” I said to kill the silence, to make sure he didn’t go back to questioning me.

He dumped the first-aid kit on the kitchen table and then crouched down, his own knees cracking as he did. Even like that, the guy was huge, biceps straining the sleeves of his t-shirt, shoulders so damn wide that when he was standing in front of me, he was all I could see.

He flicked open the lid on the first-aid kit and pulled out some antibacterial wipes. “A few.” He gently started cleaning around my grazes.

“How’d you get these?” he asked without looking up.

I hissed as he carefully dragged a wipe over the graze. “I tripped.”

“You need to be more careful,” he said, then leaned in, and started blowing on my injured skin.

Whatever I was going to say flew out of my head. His breath against my damp skin was cooling and eased the sting.

“What are you doing?” I said, my voice a little huskier than I would have liked.

“Blowing on your scraps.” He shrugged. “It’s supposed to help with the pain or some shit.” Then he carried on wiping and blowing.

I stared down at him, dumbfounded. When was the last time someone looked after me? When was the last time someone cleaned up my scrapes, or bought me Tylenol when I had a migraine, or tissues when I had a cold? I couldn’t remember. Not since my mother passed away, I knew that much. Not that she’d been that kind of mother. In the end, she’d blamed us for our father leaving, so Rebecca and I had mostly taken care of ourselves.

Suddenly, I became aware of the intimacy of it all. The quiet kitchen, the oven clock ticking softly, and the gentle way he was tending my injuries. The feel of his breath, cool where the wipes had been, and warm everywhere else.