Bruiser (Seattle Sharks 7)

in private.”

She studied me, her gaze inquisitive, her mouth pursed. “Your dad?”

My eyes flickered to hers as I lifted an alcohol swab. “Yeah. Violence escalates. It’s not like he was beating my mom while they were dating. This is going to sting,” I warned her, wishing I could take the pain for her. Wishing I could have taken the punch.

She didn’t make a sound as I cleaned the cut, her eyes unfocusing as if she’d gone somewhere else. Shea obviously wasn’t a stranger to pain or hiding it.

Be patient, I reminded myself. She’d tell me about her past when she was ready. About how the hell a sixteen-year-old girl had ended up a single parent who was so worried for the safety of her daughter a decade later that she kept a tracker on her, and still stepped in front of punches meant for other women.

“Why is it a woman who abhors violence surrounds herself with it?” I asked her.

“Because if I don’t, who will? There will always be bullies. And there’s…” she sighed softly. “There’s something about this case that reminds me of me. Like it’s my chance to pay back the second chance I got, that Elliott and I had. If not for our social worker…” she trailed off, and her lips tensed, then pursed as she looked away.

Subject closed. Got it.

“Doesn’t need stitches,” I told her. “He split the skin, but it’s nothing a couple butterfly closures won’t heal up. It’s small, but I can’t guarantee it won’t leave a scar. I don’t think it will, but I haven’t exactly been to medical school. You know what?” I glanced at the clock. Late, but doable. “Let me call a plastic surgeon for a quick consult.”

She grasped my wrist when I slid my phone from my back pocket. “No, it’s fine. I can’t afford a plastic surgeon.”

“Well, I sure as fuck can.” It pissed me the hell off that she’d make her medical decisions based on cost when I had enough money to live off of the rest of my life.

“I don’t really care if you can. I can’t.” Her muscles tensed, infused with her stubbornness.

I cupped her pain-free cheek in my hand and stepped between her knees, parting them with my hips until we were nearly flush. “Why can’t you just let me take care of you?”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she sighed. “Because I don’t like depending on people. People leave.”

Her raw, honest answer ripped open my heart, the sensation a dull ache in my chest where I’d been happily numb for the last nine months.

“I don’t leave. I don’t break my word. I am as dependable for you as I am for Elliott. It’s okay to need people.”

She smirked. “And who exactly do you need?”

“My mother,” I answered honestly. “I don’t care if that makes me a mama’s boy. I need to know she’s safe. Cared for. I need my brother, even though he has the maturity of a fucking thirteen-year-old.”

“He’s thirteen?” she asked, a soft smile shaping her lips.

“No, he’s twenty-three. Just acts like he’s thirteen. Now, I’m serious. I can have a plastics guy here in twenty minutes, and I’ll pay for it. You won’t spend a dime.”

She shook her head.

“Damn it, Shea.” My breath left in a hiss of exasperation.

“Would it bother you if it scarred?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Her face fell. “I didn’t think you...I mean, I get it. You have gorgeous, flawless women who aren’t scarred on their faces or bodies, and don’t have stretch marks from having a baby, so of course it would bother you to see a flaw—”

I used my mouth to shut her up, kissing her soundly. My tongue demanded entrance, and she gave it. Fuck, I could kiss her for the rest of my life and still not get enough. She was sweet, and so giving and honest in her desire. No feigned reactions. No faked orgasms. She was as real, as perfect, as a woman came.

She was dazed by the time I lifted my head.

“I don’t give a fuck if you’re scarred. You’re perfect. Every mark you have on you at this moment is your history. You should be proud of every single one of them, even if they’re not pleasant memories, because they brought you to this moment, where you’re strong enough to protect someone weaker. What I care about is seeing a reminder on your beautiful face every single day that you couldn’t lean on me, wouldn’t depend on me enough to get a damn doctor. That’s not something I want to see for the rest of my life—a visual reminder of my failures on your skin.”

Her lips parted, and she gave me that look again—the one that seemed like she was seeing me for the first time. “If it means that much to you, okay,” she acquiesced.

“Thank God.” I whipped my phone out, and twenty minutes later had one of the best plastic surgeons in the country examining her cheek.

“It shouldn’t scar,” Lennox assured us, having cleaned it again, glued it shut with something that made Shea flinch, slathered it in ointment, and secured it with butterfly strips just to be on the safe side.

“You’re sure?” I asked.

He rolled his eyes at me. “I’ve kept your face pretty since you became my upstairs neighbor, haven’t I?”

“Truth,” I admitted.

“Then trust me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a couple really gorgeous blondes I left sleeping to come to your rescue. Shea, it was lovely to meet you. You should consider ducking next time.” He gave her a grin.

Stupid, fucking, pretty boy. He wasn’t as built as I was, and he stood a couple inches shorter, but the guy dressed like he walked out of GQ and didn’t have a single flaw. Not. One.

“I’ll walk you out.”

“Me, too,” Shea added, and I lifted her from the counter, letting my fingers brush her lower back as we made our way to the door.

Okay, it was possessive. So what.

Once our thank yous were said, and Lennox and all his shiny Ken-doll hair was in the elevator, Shea looked up at me with wide eyes.

“He’s really a plastic surgeon.”

“Yep. Graduated med school at twenty-two or some shit. He’s twenty-nine now.”

Her eyes flickered back to the elevator. “He’s pretty.”

“He’s emotionally unavailable.”

“Look who’s talking,” she smirked up at me.

“Hey, I’m an open book. You’re the secretive one.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Point for you, Porter. Besides, he’s apparently into threesomes, and I don’t share, so I guess that means he’s off the table.” She shrugged, and the sparkle in her eyes had me grabbing her by the ass, lifting her to my eye-level.

She wound her arms around my neck.

“Those blondes he’s talking about are his sons. Twins. Six-years-old. And he’s off the table because your fucking table is already full.”

“Oh?” She ran her fingers through the curls that formed at the base of my skull. “Full of…” She raised her eyebrows in obvious challenge.

“Me.”

Her attention drifted to my lips, and I put her down slowly, letting her slide down, rubbing every curve she had. If I kissed her now, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop, and that wasn’t a chance I was willing to take.

Her feet hit the floor, and she tugged her lower lip between her teeth.

“Why don’t you stay here tonight? Some of the swelling should be gone by morning. I have more than three bedrooms,” I assured her.

“Because you wouldn’t want me sleeping in your bed?” she teased.

“Jesus, woman. Because I know how worried you get about what you expose Elliott to, and I’m trying to take care of you, not fuck you.” I stepped back and rubbed the scar on my eyebrow.

“So you don’t want to fuck me? Because last night your tongue was saying something else entirely.” She didn’t bat her lashes or act coy, simply looked up at me with those honest, gray eyes, daring me to deny it.

“Oh, I want to fuck you. Trust me. The amount of time I fantasize about sliding inside you borders on insanity. Plus, my bedroom is far enough away from Elliott

’s that she wouldn’t even hear a whisper if you were screaming my name—which you would. I promise.” I leveled that guarantee at her the same way she had—daring her to challenge it.

She didn’t challenge or deny it. Just parted her lips, and stared at mine.

Fuck me, she was sex incarnate, sensual in her every reaction, and she didn’t have a damned clue.

“A bath would be really nice,” she whispered.

“I can do that. The best tub is in my master bath, though.”

“I trust you not to ravish me while I’m not looking,” she jested.

“Oh, you have jokes, nice. Do you want to check on Elliott first? Both bedrooms are upstairs, and hers is down here.”

“She’s tucked in and safe?”

“Yes. I even read her a bedtime story.”

“Goldilocks?”

“A summary of the Gretzky offense. It was riveting.”

“Sounds like it.” She tilted her head to the side. “We can head up. If you say she’s tucked in...I...I trust you.”

That ache in my heart increased to a dull throb. She trusted me. Not just with herself, but with Elliott. That was… fuck, it was monumental.

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound natural. “Let’s get you in the bath.”

I led her through the penthouse, shutting off lights as we made our way upstairs. Her eyes flew wide as she took in my bedroom. I tried to see it through her eyes, the wall of windows that left you feeling exposed even though it was one-way glass. The space was pretty massive for the cost of square footage downtown, and so was the furniture. It kind of had to be. I was a pretty big guy.

We walked into the master bath, and she gawked at the giant, jetted tub that took up a hefty amount of space.

I started the water, and dumped in bath salts—I had that shit in spades to remove muscle aches that came from being a professional hockey player.

She didn’t say a word as she turned, taking in the amenities.

“So, you own your own spa?”

I ignored her joke and the fact that she was about to be naked in my bathroom. “Okay,” I said, grabbing her two giant, soft towels and a bathrobe.

“I didn’t strike you as a bathrobe guy.” She tilted her head at me as the tub filled behind her.