Saving Her - Eden Summers Page 0,37

up at me through thick lashes. Those eyes are dark, their depth punishing. But it’s his dilated pupils that cause me concern.

I suck in a breath. “You’ve got a concussion.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I’ve had worse.”

The instinct to take him at his word is strong. I want to have faith in him. And I itch to reject the slight glimmer of trust at the same time.

“If you’re not going to see a doctor, you should at least clean your wound.”

“No. I’m—”

“A stubborn man who doesn’t want to destroy his tough-guy status after surviving a bullet to the skull?”

He huffs out a chuckle. “My tough-guy status is the last thing I’m worried about.” He speaks in a lazy drawl, yet the pointedness in his gaze insinuates I’m the focus of his current concern. That I’m all he’s worried about. “Besides, I can’t get a proper look at the side of my head. I don’t even know what I’m up against.”

Is he fishing for connection? For trust?

I suck my lower lip between my teeth, staring at him, trying to see the deception I’m sure he must have hidden. Men don’t help women. They use. Hurt. Abuse.

Goddammit.

Why can’t my life be easy for once? I don’t want to keep questioning everything. Everyone. I just want nothingness.

No thoughts. No fear. No pain.

No struggle to get my sisters to safety.

“I can take a look. If that’s what you want.” I shuffle forward, tempting fate, testing this flimsy layer of protection he’s shrouded me in. If this is all an act I’d prefer to know now, not later. Not once I’ve lost myself too far down the torturous path of trust.

He raises his chin, blinking up at me. Silent. Contemplative.

My heart flutters under his attention, my insides quavering. I’m scared, my fear tightly bottled. It’s more than that, too. I tremble for reasons unknown.

The closer I get, the harder it is to think through the tormented sea swirling inside me. He’s a trap. The temptation of his help lays in wait beneath the steel claws of his intentions.

I reach out, my approach tentative.

“Take care of the kid first.” He tilts his head away. “He’s waiting on you to run the bath.”

I’m confused by his rejection, my arm hovering in the space between us, my fingers an inch from his hair.

“Go on. Look after Toby.” He pushes from the bed, his hulking frame dwarfing me. “I’ll find him a shirt to wear.”

I retreat with uncertainty.

At least I understood the threat from Luther. I knew him so well I could anticipate his next move.

Luca is different. I can’t foresee anything with him. Not his words or his actions. I can’t even understand his claim to want to help me.

I backtrack, turning away from him to walk through the robe, then into the bathroom where Tobias is naked and standing in wait.

I ignore my confusion as I stalk to the bath and turn on the taps, making the water gush like a waterfall.

“Is he a nice man?” Tobias walks to my side. “Because I thought he was, then Dad said he wasn’t. Now I don’t know what to think because he still seems nice.”

I kneel before the bath and swirl the water, buying myself time to answer.

I don’t know what to say.

My heart wants to trust the man who protected us with vicious determination. It’s my head that reminds me I’ve fallen victim to the lies of a predator once before.

“He seems genuine.” I continue mixing the water. “Don’t you think?”

He shrugs and steps into the bath. “I want to like him. But I heard some of the things he said to Dad before he…” There’s another shrug, his sorrow building behind those innocent eyes.

I hate that he’s hurting. And I detest that a monster’s murder is the cause of his pain.

“Sweetheart, I know it’s hard to think about your dad being gone. He was your family. But we’re going to get through this. I’ll make sure of it.”

He sits in the building water and pulls his bended legs to his chest. “He hurt you.”

I stiffen, unsure how to react. He’s never mentioned the reality of my situation before. Not once.

“He hurt you, and Chloe, and the others all the time.”

“Yes, he did,” I whisper.

“Why?” His brows knit. “Why did he do that?”

Grief hits me. Grief at the life stolen from me, at the years I lost, at the scars I know will never heal, and how this little boy witnessed it all.

“Your father was…” My throat tightens.

“A bad man?”

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