Page 35 of Match Me if You Can

“Yeah, no. You’re done.”

FOURTEEN

Ace

I catch her before she falls again, and tired of this shit, I lean in, scoop her up.

She groans, and I freeze, knowing I shouldn’t have hurt her with the motion—my hold is gentle, I didn’t hit any of her limbs or her head against anything—but it is a pained sound, and I can’t do anything but stop.

Her eyes are squeezed tight, features scrunched.

Hurting.

Something happens in my chest, in my heart. I ignore it, ignore it the same way I ignored it on the plane, and ask softly, “What do you need?”

“Quiet, dark, and sleep,” she whispers in that hushed voice. “And to not move for the next century.”

The hint of a joke settles me enough for me to reach over her, to flick off the light.

A sigh.

“Better?” I say, the question barely audible to my ears after I wait for my eyes to adjust to the faint band of light sneaking in under the door.

She winces, but then she answers, somehow even quieter, “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Hang on.” I heft her again so I can reach the doorknob, but I do it slower this go around, manage to not make her groan in pain a second time.

I tug the door wide, shuffle us through, start for the direction of my room⁠—

“What’s wrong?”

She flinches in my arms at Noble’s question, eyes flying open, causing her to moan and slam them shut.

I hold her a little closer, glare at my brother. “Shh,” I hiss and then immediately lower my volume. “She’s got a migraine.”

Noble’s expression clears. “Damn,” he mutters. “I’ll get the door and keep the assholes clear.”

“Thanks,” I whisper, stepping back, hating how carefully Violet is holding herself, how her body is rigid and too fucking light, none of the softness of her curves evident with how taut each and every one of her muscles is.

Noble opens the door to my bedroom, steps back, and waits for me to carry her through before he shuts it quietly behind him.

We Ambroses are all assholes.

But Noble might have the least of that in him.

I stride over to the bed, shifting Violet in my arms as I tug back the blankets. I settle her on the mattress, tug the comforter up and over her. Then I step away, creep out of the room, and retrieve her shit from the bathroom, taking my time, hoping that she’ll have fallen asleep by the time I make it back.

And I think she is as I settle on the floor, back against the door, eyes on my phone with the brightness all the way down.

At least until she speaks.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” she whispers.

“I’m fine,” I whisper back.

“Really.”

“Doesn’t your head hurt?”