might, pinwheeling my arms, I can’t keep myself from falling backward—so I grab onto the only thing I can:
Vance Reigns.
And I pull him down with me.
WITH A PAINFUL GROAN, I roll off my side and onto my back. I had to twist myself to the side so I wouldn’t land on top of her, and my shoulder stings from the impact. I suck in a painful breath and push myself to sit up, and once I figure that I’m not broken anywhere, I turn around and snap at her, “Can’t you stop falling off things for two seconds!”
But she’s already trying to get to her feet—and something’s wrong. She’s leaning too heavily against the wall, favoring her right foot, but she’s still trying to walk. Her back is turned to me so I can’t see her face. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m rushing to my feet.
“Oi, you’re hurt,” I say, reaching for her elbow to steady her.
She wrenches away from my touch, her eyes wide. Tears fleck her long brown eyelashes, and they make me pause. She’s crying. I’ve never been very good with people crying. She quickly rakes her hands over her eyes, smudging her liner.
“I’m leaving, d-don’t worry—” She tries to take another step, but her ankle gives.
I catch her, and bend down, pulling my other arm underneath her legs, and swoop her up into my arms. She yelps and wraps her arms tightly around my neck. If she tells me to put her down, I will, but she doesn’t, so I carry her over to the couch and set her down on the cushions, before I go find an ice pack. Elias put one in the refrigerator a while ago when he burned his hand in the oven. I hope it’s still—ah, there it is, right on top of the peas, where he left it. I grab it, and the first-aid kit underneath the sink, and quickly return to the living room, where she’s trying to get up off the couch.
“Sit,” I command.
“I’m not a dog,” she snaps in reply, to which Sansa—being a good girl on her dog bed in the corner of the living room—gives a haroomp and flops over.
I try again: “Please sit down.”
She hesitates, halfway between standing and leaning on the couch for support, but she must weigh her options in favor of sitting, because she slowly sinks back down onto the cushions. I go around the couch and sit opposite her, reaching for her foot, when she knocks my hand away.
“Do you want me to look at your foot or not?”
“Not would be preferable.”
“I should at least take a look at the swelling,” I say.
She hesitates again, and then she squares her shoulders and gives a single nod.
I gently lift her foot to my lap. “Elias taught me,” I say before she can ask. “Said if I wanted to do my own stunts, might as well learn how to treat myself, too. He went to school for nursing. Said it wasn’t his calling—not enough pain-in-the-ass rich white kids.”
“I can’t believe he gave up nursing to be your babysit—ah!” she gasps as I feel the underside of her foot, and bites her bottom lip hard enough to leave a white bloodless indentation.
“Well, good news,” I say after a moment, running my fingers gently along her ankle. “I think it’s fatal.”
She gives me a withering look. “You’re the worst.”
“So I’m always reminded. I think it’s only sprained, but when Elias comes back we can take you to the emergency room.”
She looks away, frowning. “I think it’ll be fine.”
“It might not be.”
To that she huffs, but she doesn’t rebuke me again. I gently wrap her ankle with an Ace bandage and prop it up on the coffee table, and go rifling into the first-aid box. “Want some pain relievers? Are you allergic to anything?”
“You.”
I offer her a bottle of ibuprofen and the ice pack. “Who isn’t?”
She frowns, shifting uncomfortably again, though I can’t tell whether it’s from her ankle or something else. “…Are you okay?” she finally asks.
That surprises me. “Oh. Yeah. Of course I am.”
The garage door opens, and Elias comes in, laden with two bags of groceries. “Is that Rosie’s car still out front?” He rounds into the kitchen when he sees us on the couch in the living room. Then he notices the ice on her ankle, and the first-aid box, and drops the groceries on the ground. He turns an accusing eye to me. “What did you do?”
I give