“No.”
“You couldn’t have stayed safe out of sight?” he asks in a growl.
There are a couple of buckets of water in the bathroom for emergencies such as these. I grab a cloth and a bar of soap and start in on the mess that is me. However, he takes the cloth from me and carefully gets to work.
“Damn that water’s cold. You know what would have happened to those women,” I say. “What they would have done to them.”
His mouth opens to argue, but no.
“They had their back to us,” I say. “We were in a good position.”
“Astrid—”
“Those assholes threatened ababy, Dean. They actually inferred that Porter might not let the mother keep her child.”
He squeezes his eyelids shut tight for a moment. Then he starts carefully washing the dried blood from my face and neck. My shoulder, arm, and chest. Neither of us talks for a while. High as a kite as I am, I still know he needs time to process.
The water in the first bucket is soon the color of rust. With help, I wash my hair leaning over the edge of the bathtub, holding a towel to the bandage keeps it dry. Then I’m wrapped in a large plush towel. Dean sits on the bed, and I sit at his feet as he carefully brushes my hair.
“I don’t feel as bad as I thought I would after killing someone,” I say, resting my elbow on his denim-clad knee. “This worries me.”
“Like you said, he threatened the life of a child. That’s a whole new level of asshole.”
“Yeah. I puked on the sidewalk. But I don’t know if that was more from the shock of getting shot or what.”
He just grunts. Like I know what the noise means. Each section of my hair is carefully lifted and worked over with the brush in his hand. The man would have made a hell of a maid.
“There’s always this impossible weight when a character kills for the first time in books and movies. Like a burden that they assume. The cost of dealing in life and death,” I say. “But I’m not feeling it. I get that deciding to kill someone is big. It doesn’t seem like anyone should have the power of life and death. But there’s no doubt in me that I made the right choice today. Does that make me a bad person or a decisive one or what?”
“Depends.” He pauses to crack his neck. “Got the urge to go out and start killing people indiscriminately?”
“No.”
“Would you kill someone for annoying you or something stupid?”
“I know I’ve threatenedyoua time or two…”
His chuckle hits me straight between the hips.
I wrap my arms around his legs and lean my cheek against his knee. Head wounds make me demonstrative, apparently. He’s so big and warm, and he smells so good. And I may not be tearing myself in two over ending the lackey, but it doesn’t mean I am not in need of comfort.
Here’s the thing: within the privacy of my own skull, I can admit Dean has become my person. Not exactly sure what the job title “person” entails at this point in time. However, it’s important and multilayered and detail-oriented and stuff. Very him-specific. I should probably just keep it to myself for now.
Which is why I open my mouth and say, “You’re my person.”
“I’m your person?”
“Oops. Didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
He pauses. “How high are you right now?”
“Yeah. Sort of.” So many thoughts spinning around inside my mind. “I always wanted a person. It’s just a game of luck, right? There are a lot of people out there. Or therewerea lot of people out there. What are the chances that you meet the right person for you, though? Not good.”
“Define the right person.”
I shrug. “No can do. You just know that they’re right.”
“Okay,” he says, sounding mildly freaked out for some reason.
