Page 41 of Broken Vows

He tries to pull the T-shirt off one-handed and immediately gets stuck. I step in without thinking, easing the fabric over his injured arm. As I do, his scent hits me—warm skin, sweat, and something unmistakably masculine.

When the shirt comes off, my gaze lingers for half a second on the thick, hard muscle of his torso and the sharp definition of his stomach.

Then I quickly focus on the wound. Two bullet marks, close together, raw and angry. I press gauze to his shoulder, and blood immediately soaks through.

“They got you good,” I murmur, leaning in closer. “What happened again?”

“Guarding a bank. Robbery gone wrong.”

“What bank?” I ask, pressing fresh gauze against his shoulder. This time, the blood doesn’t soak through right away. I hold the pressure steady, watching as the bright red stain slowly stops spreading.

“The one in the city.”

I raise an eyebrow. “There are about three hundred banks in the city. I didn’t hear about any robbery.”

“Yeah, well…” He looks away. “I stopped them, didn’t I? And now I can’t even close my fucking hand properly.”

He tries to make a fist with his left hand. His fingers curl weakly and stop halfway. The frustration rolling off him is palpable.

“Language,” I say.

I keep one hand pressed to the gauze and slide my other hand into his.

“Is it numb?” I ask, gently pressing my finger into his palm. “Can you feel that?”

He shakes his head.

I test different spots across his palm and fingers. Each time, he gives the same small shake of his head.

“Do the doctors think you’ll get it back?” I ask softly.

“They don’t know.”

The frustration in his voice hits me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “That must be hard. Feeling like your own body is betraying you.”

“I’m fine,” he says too quickly.

I try not to smile. Men. Always pretending everything is fine when it clearly isn’t, as if admitting they have normal emotions makes them less of a man.

I realize my hand is still resting in his. His palm is warm and rough against mine. I pull away, my cheeks warming, and reach for the antiseptic spray.

“You know,” I say quietly as I work, “for someone with only one working arm, you still manage to do more than most men could with two. It’s actually pretty impressive.”

Levi doesn’t reply.

When I glance at him, a faint flush creeps up his neck and across his cheeks. He looks away quickly, suddenly fascinated by the corner of my kitchen cabinet, like he has no idea what to do with the compliment.

Before the moment can get any more awkward, I press a fresh bandage firmly over the wound. “There we go.” I take a step back. “You should probably get this looked at.”

“It’s fine.”

It really isn’t, but I doubt he’ll do anything about it.

I pop into the kitchen and come back with two pain killers and a glass of water. “Take these. They might make you less grumpy.”

He swallows the pills, then rolls his shoulder carefully, testing it. His gaze drifts to my books on the dining table.