Three Kinds of Trouble (Sons of Templar MC 9)

“I swear to fuck,” he muttered, getting up and pacing, his eyes on me.

The words were saturated with frustration, with fury.

For me.

As much as his presence comforted, unnerved and distracted me, it also confused the ever-loving fuck out of me.

I shifted, trying to yank my body upward in the bed so I wasn’t laying down flat with him towering over me.

Hades stormed over to me as I let out a hiss of air between my teeth.

“Don’t fuckin’ move until the doctor gets here.” His hand was on the center of my chest, gently holding me down. He didn’t have to exert pressure because I was laughably weak right now. Weak due to the beating, the shock of Hades being here, acting like the possessive male, and weak because I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime yesterday. It felt like I hadn’t had water in fucking weeks.

So I didn’t fight him. Though I did glare at him. I did it regardless of the fire that spread through his body from where his palm laid flat on my chest, thumb and pinky barely brushing the tops of my breasts. The touch itself wasn’t sexual. Or at least it wasn’t meant to be.

His palm stayed there as I breathed, moving slowly up and down with his eyes locked on mine. I’m not sure how long we would’ve stayed like this had the doctor not rushed in, ruining the moment.

I would’ve ripped his head off had he not been the guy with the drugs. He’d checked my vitals then let me know that there were a couple of ribs broken and a lot of bruises that would heal on their own.

I was to be discharged later in the day. There was no mention of an interview with the police, something I found odd. I was sure the hospital had a legal obligation to contact the authorities after someone came in with such injuries. But maybe I watched too much SVU.

The nurse came in straight after, bringing water and food which she urged me to eat, which I only finished because of Hades’s watchful eye and the thin line of his lips that told me he’d force the food down my neck if I didn’t.

Then she offered to take me to the bathroom. Hades himself took my hip and helped me across the room. I didn’t make eye contact with him, but I pressed into his comforting hold, relishing the hard lines of his body. He had carried my pink bag in first, leaving it hanging on a little hook for me.

Though it was infinitely embarrassing, he was waiting for me when I came out. I felt well enough to walk under my own power, and I definitely should’ve done that for independent women everywhere. Instead, I let Hades walk me back to bed.

The nurse lingered for a bit, her eyes on Hades with a little too much interest for my liking. Though it didn’t matter what I did or didn’t like since we weren’t together. We weren’t dating. We weren’t sleeping together. We hadn’t even fucking kissed.

I’d saved his life that one time.

He’d sat by my hospital bed, holding my hand the entire night. He’d vowed to kill the man who did this to me. He had already killed the man who’d held a gun to my head.

But he wasn’t my boyfriend.

My head hurt enough without trying to dissect what the fuck Hades was to me.

Finally, the nurse left, and she didn’t leave her number in his cut or something that would’ve hurt more than another punch to the face. Well, maybe not more than a punch to the face, but it was comparable.

As much as I had wanted her to leave, I became suddenly and terribly uncomfortable in the room alone with Hades. I was thankful that in the bag that Kallum had dropped off at some point when I was unconscious and Hades was here—I really would’ve loved to see that—there were some PJs. I tried my best not to think about my attractive, alpha male boss going through my pajama drawer. My pajama drawer was not chaste. It contained a lot of silk, a lot of lace and a lot of lingerie. I was grateful to see that he hadn’t chosen to put any of that in my bag. Instead there was a pair of silk, bright pink, oversized pajamas that draped over my skin like butter and smelled like my fabric softener. They calmed me. Grounded me.

I also felt a fuck of a lot more attractive after washing my face, applying my skincare and spritzing on perfume. I owed Kallum one. A hundred, actually. For a man with muscles, tattoos and an air of menace, he somehow knew to include the essentials of my skincare routine. It was hard to do with my face how it was, and it was hard for me to see myself like this, but I’d bit my lip until I tasted blood and forced myself through it.