“Like I was used as a tackle dummy.” My joke falls flat, as do his eyes, which darken from a beautiful seafoam green to the color of pine trees.
“You know I’m pissed at you, right?” His stern expression and flat tone clue me in to the fact that he’s not kidding.
“At me?” I try to arch a brow, but it hurts too much. “Why are you mad at me?” The last word comes out as a squeak.
He doesn’t answer. Instead his free hand comes up to run through his hair, the strands sticking out through the pinch of his fingers before he continues down to grip the back of his neck. Damn, he is pissed.
“What the hell were you thinking?” His hard stare pins me to the bed.
“Huh?” He’s going to have to be a little more specific. “I’m probably concussed, so speaking in riddles is not a good way to get answers.”
His nostrils flare and his chest expands with a deep inhalation.
Boo. *pouts* He put a shirt on.
Not the time, I scold my inner cheerleader.
“I mean…in what world did you think it was a good idea to get between me and a punch. Meant. For. Me?”
How is this even a question?
“Seriously?” He has the audacity to only give me a simple nod. “You’re always going on and on about how I’m yours and you protect what’s yours. Well dammit—” I smack the bed with my free hand, my IV pulling against the tape securing it. I’m so damn frustrated I want to rip my hair out, but I don’t dare; my head hurts enough without adding self-harm. “You”—I curl my fingers under his palm and poke him—“are mine. And I”—I ignore another pull of the tape to slap my chest—“protect what’s mine too.”
An amused chuckle comes from behind us as the rest of the room starts to wake.
“Careful,” E warns.
Bette snickers. They may have only been my guardians for a few years, but they have always taken great pride in having been the ones to raise me through the last—and, according to them, most important—years of high school.
“I’ll play nice,” Mase tells my brother while keeping his focus solely on me, “but it doesn’t change the fact that I can handle taking a punch better than she can.”
“I wasn’t going to let him hurt you,” I argue, the volume of my voice rising with my anger, waking those who weren’t already up.
Mase scoffs. He fucking scoffs. I so want to slap him right now.
“Baby…” He shakes his head. “He wouldn’t have hurt me.”
I make a noise in the back of my throat, causing his shoulders to bounce with suppressed laughter.
“Of course.” I puff out a frustrated breath, barely withholding an eye roll. “How silly of me to think getting punched would hurt the great Mason Nova.” I bring my palm to my forehead for a gentle facepalm.
The jerk has the audacity to laugh at me. “I’m not saying that, but…” He oh-so-gently cups the injured side of my face. “I am literally twice the size of you. The physics alone are on my side. And…”
My eyes drift closed as he trails his fingers down to curl around the back of my neck in a solid grip. His weight shifts, and I feel him push into the side of the hospital bed seconds before the intoxicating scent of his soap fills my senses above the strident smell of antiseptic.
“…based on how he hit you in your face, god only knows where he was aiming on me.”
JT snorts, and now he’s the one I want to smack.
As Mase pulls away to retake his seat, I reach up to wrap my fingers around his wrist as best I can, my thumb still a couple inches from touching the tips of the other digits. I rotate his hand until the knuckles are visible for inspection. They’re not bruised, swollen, or cut up like I would expect.
“What are you doing?” He sounds amused as I trace each bump of his large metacarpals.
“You didn’t fight him?” I jerk my gaze to his, a slash of pain streaking across my temples.
“Oh, I wanted to.” This time his deep chuckle has all my girly bits standing at attention as he twists to link our fingers. “I was just more concerned with stopping the blood coming out of your head.” The strain in his voice tells me how hard the memory hits him.
I bring my hand up to the small square bandage now covering the