Chapter 477
[ 530 words ]
Chapter 477:
Suddenly, the tent flap was pulled aside. Jarrod stood silhouetted against the bright lights outside, his large frame filling the entrance. He stepped inside, bringing a chill of the night air with him. His right arm was still locked against his chest in the heavy brace, and the fingers of his left hand remained splinted and swollen, held carefully away from his side as if even the air could hurt them.
Caroline sat up, surprised. “Are you finished?”
He walked to her cot and sat on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight. He did not pull her into his arms. He couldn’t. Instead, he lowered himself beside her with the same controlled stiffness she had learned to recognize, his braced arm trapped between them and his injured left hand resting uselessly on his thigh. “Not even close,” he murmured. “But I have more important things to do.”
He meant her. He meant this.
She leaned carefully against the uninjured side of his chest, the steady beat of his heart a comforting rhythm against her ear. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice muffled by his uniform.
𝘈𝗱𝘥ictivе 𝘴𝗍𝗼𝗿𝘪𝘦ѕ 𝗼ո 𝘨a𝗅𝗻𝗈vе𝗅s.𝖼𝘰𝘮
He chuckled, a low, soft sound. He tilted his head until his mouth brushed her hair, the closest thing to a caress his damaged body could manage. “Still lying. Who was it this afternoon with eyes as red as a rabbit’s?”
His words, his gentle teasing that showed he’d seen right through her, made a fresh wave of emotion well up inside her, a mixture of frustration and sadness. She balled her hand into a fist and thumped it lightly against the safe side of his chest, careful to avoid the brace. “I was not!”
The protest was weak, childish, and he knew it. It was more an act of affection than anger. He looked down at her hand but made no attempt to catch it. His left fingers twitched once inside the splint, a useless reflex that made his jaw tighten. The small failure seemed to sober him more than either of them expected.
“Admit it,” he whispered, his voice low, no longer teasing. “You don’t want me to go.”
She turned her head, unable to meet that penetrating gaze. She stared at the canvas wall of the tent, her heart hammering against her ribs.
He did not push her back against the mattress. He did not cover her with his body. The old Jarrod might have tried to turn fear into heat, to silence pain with possession. This Jarrod sat beside her in the dim light, injured, restrained, and too aware of the coming distance to waste it pretending.
“You make me feel like a boy being sent off to boarding school,” he said, his voice a low rumble above her hair. “And you’re the mother who’s worried I’m going to get beat up.”
The bizarre, unexpected analogy broke the tension. A surprised laugh escaped her. She turned her head back to look at him. “Okay,” she conceded, her voice barely a whisper. “I admit it. I don’t want you to go.”
The admission hung in the air between them. His eyes darkened, the teasing light replaced by something deeper, quieter.
“Good,” he breathed. “I needed to hear you say it.”
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