Shane (Damage Control 4)

I blink, lift my head.

Then the words drop like pennies.

“Why the matchbox and the cinnamon gum inside?” She pulls out a T-shirt, frowns at it. “I mean, I don’t believe you told your co-workers about the thing with the smell, so I guess it’s coincidence. A hell of a coincidence, though…”

She’s still talking, but I can only hear the blood rushing in my ears, and my only thought is—Holy shit, that was real?

Chapter Twelve

Cassie

He produces a soft groan, and I turn around, a T-shirt and soft drawstring pants clutched in my hands. “What is it?”

He’s staring down at his

hands, his face white, and I have an oh-crap moment, thinking I’ve somehow pushed him into another flashback.

But then he tucks his hair behind his ear and clenches his jaw. “A coincidence.”

“What?”

He waves a hand in the air. “Has to be a coincidence. The box. The gum.” He resumes undressing—or at least trying to pull down the zipper of his heavy jacket, with little success. His hands are shaking. “Only you know about the triggers. Not even Seth—” He stops, shakes his head as if fighting off an irritating insect. “Not even Seth knows those things. Only you.”

Aww God. I shouldn’t feel so pleased—his half-brother is worried about him and wants to help and doesn’t even know what makes Shane tick—but there you go.

He entrusted me with this information. I never realized how hard it must have been for him, poking his wounds so deeply for the first time because I asked him. Believing me when I said that I, of all people, could help him.

He finally manages to pull down the zipper and shrugs off the heavy jacket. In a trance, I walk up to him, put the clean dry clothes on the bed and take the jacket. It weighs about a ton, and I almost drop it.

“I’ll hang it in the bathroom to dry,” I say and take those few moments to pull myself together.

I’m touched. More than I ever thought possible. Touched and humbled and proud of him. I was so scared when I connected the call and heard him ask for help. When I arrived and found him surrounded by his co-workers, looking so lost and terrified and exhausted. This has to be wearing him down.

I will help him. No margin of error here. Not just because of Angel, or because I don’t want to feel the same crushing pain twice.

No, it’s because I can’t lose Shane. His small, secret smile, the warmth in his eyes, the bright spirit behind the darkness, his fight and his courage.

God, I really meant it. I love him, and I can hardly bear it, that bittersweet sting, when I remember he doesn’t feel that way.

I drape the dripping jacket over the shower curtain, rub my chilled hands over my face. Got to keep my cool. Don’t let him burrow too deep under my skin, into my heart.

But how do I stop it? How do you switch off emotions once there’re there?

Crap. Maybe I need a distraction.

When I return to his bedroom, I find one waiting for me: he’s taking off his T-shirt, and like every single time, my mouth waters at the sight of his muscular, inked torso.

Holy crap, this boy. Perhaps I should move and help him undress. But I’m caught, rooted to the spot as he slowly tugs the white fabric over his head then lets it drop and shakes out his long hair.

Whoa.

My fantasies can never do him justice. He’s just so beautifully sculpted, like a fantastic statue of a man, all solid planes and shallow hollows, his washboard stomach a work of art.

The body of a man who’s been training for a long time, honing his muscles into lethal weapons to use if needed.

I wonder how much use it is against memory, then lose my thread of thought again when he reaches down for the zipper of his jeans. His gaze flicks up, catches mine, and grows darker.

“Let me help,” I whisper, my voice a little squeaky, and I’m not even sure what sort of help I mean right now—with the flashbacks, with his clothes, or with his dick.