His gaze roams over me critically from head to toe.

Yeah, with all the stuff I have on me, it’s probably hard to tell.

“No,” I answer and feel Simon squeeze my hand.

Andrew nods and places his gloved hand on my cheek. He shines the beam of the flashlight in my eyes and I immediately squeeze them shut.

“Try to keep your eyes open,” Andrew says gently.

Well, as gently as a man with his deep of a voice can.

Forcing my eyes open, they water and burn as I stare ahead.

Andrew clicks the flashlight off and drops his hand from my cheek.

“Well?” Simon asks impatiently as Andrew drops back down to his backpack.

“She’s sustained a mild concussion. She’ll need some pain relievers and rest.”

I shoot Simon an ‘I told you so’ look.

He frowns as Andrew rises again with a small bottle of water and a bottle of pills.

“Are those safe for the baby?” Simon asks Andrew.

Shock slices through me and Andrew seems to freeze in place.

“I’m not pregnant,” I insist, and shoot Simon a pointed glare.

“You are,” he says with such surety I have the sudden urge to punch him.

“You don’t know that!”

“I do,” he grins, his thumb stroking along my hand.

God, help me. If there’s a baby growing inside me… his baby…

Andrew chuckles at our little exchange and shakes his head.

He holds the bottle of water and pills out to me and I just stare at them. “It’s safe. It’s only Tylenol.”

But is Tylenol truly safe for my baby?


Am I accepting this? God, I think I am…

I accept the bottle of water, but wave off the pills. “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

Andrew nods and bends down to shove the pills back into his backpack.

“Alright, let’s have a look at you now, Simon,” he says as he straightens. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Simon stares at me as he answers Andrew, and there’s the strangest look on his face. It takes me a moment to recognize it, but fuck, I think it’s pride and affection.

Why would he be looking at me with pride and affection?

“I got winged on the left shoulder and I think I cracked a couple of ribs.”

Andrew nods his head. “Remove your shirt and let’s have a look.”

Releasing my hand, Simon reaches for the buttons of his shirt but I stop him. “Here, let me do it,” I offer, knowing that it would probably be excruciating for him to do it himself.

Hand freezing on his button, Simon’s face goes slack. I shove my bottle into his hand and bend down to reach his shirt front.

He watches me warily as my fingers work quickly down his line of buttons. Almost like he’s afraid I’m going to suddenly bite him or something.

Good, he should still have a healthy fear of me. Especially since the fucker got me pregnant…

When I reach the bottom, I gently spread the fabric open.

“Thank you, princess,” he says quietly, so quietly I barely hear it over my gasp.

Large, angry red welts are peppered across his chest. I knew I almost lost him, but seeing is believing. Fuck. If he wasn’t wearing his vest…

Andrew whistles between his teeth. “Looks like someone really wanted to kill you.”

“Stop fucking fighting!” James suddenly growls and then there’s a loud crack.

“Don’t you dare fucking kill him!” Simon roars and then winces.

I flinch back, my ears buzzing, then glance towards the table to see what the hell is going on.

“Here, let me give you a hand,” Matthew says, shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it over a chair before he eagerly approaches the table to help restrain a flailing Asad.

For a moment, I somehow forgot where we are and why we’re here. But suddenly all the panic I was feeling earlier comes rushing back in.

Matthew helping James seems to pacify Simon because he slumps down in his chair as I turn back to him.

He gives me a look full of remorse. “Sorry, princess.”

I take a deep breath, trying to settle my nerves, but I doubt all the oxygen in the world would help me right now. Not when I know what’s about to happen…

Devoting my full attention back on Simon, I try to ignore Asad’s struggles in the corners of my eyes and focus on getting Simon’s shirt off his shoulders while hurting him as little as possible.

Some of the blood has started to dry though, so I quite literally have to peel the shirt away from his skin.

Once I have his shirt off and bunched at his waist, I take a step back, giving Andrew room to work.

Andrew bends over Simon and closely examines his wound on his shoulder. Gloved fingers poking and prodding at it. “Yeah, you were only winged. A few stitches and you’ll be good to go.”

Knowing that should flood me with relief, but I’m overwhelmed with a sense of doom.

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