Ryan (Mallick Brothers 2)

Her head nodded tightly as I moved to stand. "Okay," she added and I gave her a small smile and shut the door.

I walked back around the building, hunched forward to ward off against the cold, wondering how the fuck she managed to even get out of bed in the morning when the entire world filled her with dread like that, put that look of absolute bone-deep terror on her face, made her forget how to breathe.

I didn't get anxiety. It wasn't a part of my life. Things were too crazy, too hectic from moment to moment. I was raised with constant threats, stress, and uncertainty. It taught me to take everything with a grain of salt, to never let anything get the best of me, to both literally and figuratively roll with the punches.

So I couldn't relate to whatever it was she had been feeling, but one look in her eyes told me it was a terrible way to have to live.

"Ryan," the super said, cupping me on the back as the firemen started to file inside. "Sorry for the inconvenience. I know you're a busy man."

I was a busy man who employed his wife, two of his daughters, and one of his sons.

He kissed my ass.

"Not something you had control over, Andrew," I said, shrugging.

"Don't worry," he went on, looking up at the building. "I told the firemen about your neighbor too. They'll get her a mask and get her out."

"I carried her out," I said, noticing his head snapped in my direction, his brows drawing together.

"You carried her out?"

"Wasn't going to leave her in there to die of carbon monoxide poisoning, Andrew," I snorted.

"Well, no no. Of course not. I'm surprised she let you is all. I had to come in to replace her stove once; the girl stood with her back in a corner, her hand at her throat the whole time. Shame, that. She's a pretty young thing. Reminds me of my Mandy."

His Mandy was a spoiled, entitled little brat with a terrible attitude and shrill voice. Fortunately for him and her, she was good with numbers or else she'd have been out on her ass a long time ago because I simply couldn't stand her.

She was in no way anything like Dusty.

I was almost offended that he would even suggest it.

But that was insane.

We stood there for twenty minutes, every moment that passed had me wondering what she was doing in my car, if she was still freaking out, if she was hating me for dragging her out of her comfort zone.

The firemen came back out finally and informed Andrew and the rest of us that the idiot twenty year old pothead in 2A left his stove on with the flame burned out and that they had opened all the windows in the halls and it should be safe to return in about an hour.

Andrew walked off toward 2A to give it to him and I finally got to walk back around the building toward my car. I went to the driver's side and opened the door, making Dusty jerk up from where she had been sitting back in her seat, hand still on her belly, but body a lot less tense than it had been when I left her.

I slid into the seat, taking a second to let the pumping heat thaw me out before turning to her.

"2A left the stove on," I supplied, turning slightly to find her watching me intently.

"The pothead," she said, smile quirking up slightly.

"The one in the same," I agreed, nodding. "You alright?" I asked when a silence fell between us.

"Better than I thought I'd be," she allowed with an honesty I found myself surprised by. "Though I think Rocky is going to get payback for this."

"Looks like he already did," I said, reaching out despite knowing from her interaction with the dirtbag Bry that she didn't seem to like being touched, and ran my finger across the side of her hand where the angry red scratches had blood beaded up on the surface.

Had I maybe been a little less focused, a little less observant, I might have missed the way her air rushed out from between her lips, the way her fingers twitched but she didn't pull away.

I might have missed that.

But I didn't.

So it wasn't that she didn't like being touched; she just didn't like being touched by guys like Bry.

"This," she said, her voice a little airy, "this is nothing. He really hates his crate. Or, um, being told what to do at all. You know, being a cat overlord and everything."

I found my lips curving up at that, unexpectedly charmed as I reached past her for the glove box and flipped it open, pulling out what was a pretty full-service first aid kit. Call it a perk of the job I often found myself in, I was never without some antiseptic, triple antibiotic, butterfly closures, or superglue for makeshift stitching.