Page 89 of Stolen By the Billionaire
Blaze snarled, “You’re hurting her. I’ll do it.”
A metal disk chilled the inside of her elbow. A second man said, “Stand down.”
“I’m a medic.”
“And I’m a licensed physician, Robinson. Let me.”
The squeeze around her arm released.
The other guy said, “Yeah, it’s low. No one fired, right? Did she hit her head?”
Blaze shouted at the rest of them, “None of you assholes actually fired your weapons, right?”
More scuffles on the wood floor, and a bass chorus of “No,” “No,” and “No, sir.”
The air smelled clean and warm with cinnamon from the baking oatmeal, with no hint of sulfurous gunpowder reek.
Sarah cracked open her eyelids, testing that the world would stay put. The dark wood cabinets with no handles in front of her were mostly steady. “I’m fine.”
Blaze was raising her arms and examining her rib cage, then he leaned her over and looked at her back. “She seems intact.” He lifted her chin. “Do you have a headache? Did you bump your head?”
Dang, that was embarrassing. “No, I didn’t bump my head. I’m fine. I just got a little dizzy or something.”
The whole morning of terror, of waking up with that guy standing over her bed and then hiding during the fight, being locked in the gym maybe forever, and now being in the middle of a swarm of active shooters, sort of.
Blaze’s fingers massaged her scalp, threading through her hair. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?”
“I’m sure.” Blaze and that other guy were practically trampling her as they poked and examined her. She said, “Guys, back off. Give me some air.”
Blaze growled, “Erick, she told you to back off.”
Sarah leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, while Blaze stroked her spine. “I just got a little dizzy. I’m fine. Can someone take the oatmeal out of the oven?”
Blaze growled, “Adrien, get the oatmeal.”
“I’m really fine. I’ll bet I can stand up,” she said.
Blaze held onto her around her waist while she clambered to her feet, trembling like a stilt-walker in an earthquake.
He said, “You haven’t eaten.”
“I ate that lava thing covered in napalm last night,” she reminded him.
He said, “You need breakfast. Sit at the table.”
After Blaze settled her at the dining table, he brought her a bowl of baked oatmeal and a tall glass of milk. “Eat.”
“Yes, sir,” she grumbled.
He braced his arms around her and lowered his head almost to her shoulder, whispering, “If you’re trying to be a smart aleck, try something else. I’m used to being called sir, and I like it.”
Darn military officer guys.
Sarah ate the oatmeal.
As the food filled her stomach, calm weight settled in her legs. Her hand holding the spoon stopped shaking.
The neurons in her brain lapped energy from the food, and she sat up straighter.
