Chapter 398
[ 498 words ]
Chapter 398:
The words were so simple, so raw. A hysterical sound that was half-sob, half-laugh escaped her lips, and tears she hadn’t realized were there began to stream down her face.
“Get up,” she choked out, grabbing his good shoulder to help him. “Come on, I’ll take care of it.”
He didn’t budge. He let his body go limp, becoming a dead weight on the floor. He looked up at her through his lashes, his expression one of pure, stubborn misery. “First, you have to say you forgive me.”
He was blaming himself for her locking him out, for the fight, for everything. He was using his injury to demand not just treatment, but absolution.
The intensity of his gaze was infuriating, yet deeply endearing, and it completely disarmed her. “I forgive you!” she cried, wiping at her tears with the back of her hand. “Now will you please get up!”
The change was instantaneous. The miserable, wounded expression vanished, replaced by a brilliant, triumphant grin. He didn’t jump up or perform any grand displays—his right arm was still far too compromised for that—but he used his left shoulder to brace himself against the wall, shifting his weight with a calculated, steady effort to regain his footing. He stood tall, though he kept his right arm pinned securely in its splint against his torso, carefully avoiding any jarring motion.
Caroline stared at him, her mouth slightly open. The tears on her cheeks felt cold. She had been played. Utterly and completely.
He must have seen the realization dawn on her face. The triumphant smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He immediately cradled his injured left hand again, his face contorting back into a mask of agony. He shuffled toward her, holding out the damaged fingers for inspection.
“Still hurts, though,” he said, his voice once again small and pathetic. “Needs medicine.”
She saw the flicker of cunning in the depths of his eyes.
“You deserve it,” she snapped, her voice devoid of any real heat.
𝗥ea𝘥 𝘁𝗵𝘦 𝗹𝗮𝘁eѕ𝗍 𝘵r𝘦n𝗱s оո g𝖺𝗹n𝘰ve𝘭s.𝘤𝘰𝗆
She turned her back on him and walked into her room, leaving the door wide open. He followed her, moving with the careful, deliberate grace of a man managing a fragile, broken body. She knelt and pulled a first-aid kit from under her bed. She opened it, then slammed the lid shut with a loud bang.
“Treat it yourself,” she said, not looking at him.
He immediately slumped, holding his hand out in front of her, wiggling the swollen fingers pitifully.
The cold war was over. He had won.
Jarrod pushed his advantage, stepping closer and holding his injured left hand practically under her nose. The skin was already tight and shiny with swelling.
“I’m good with a gun, not a Q-tip,” he stated, his tone utterly reasonable, as if this were a self-evident fact of the universe. “It’s a completely different skill set.”
The sheer, unadulterated nerve of his logic left her speechless. A sigh of defeat escaped her lips. She couldn’t win this. She stood up, brushing past him. “Stay here.”
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