Page 64 of Protected from Reprisal
I called Yara my girlfriend, and I like the sound of it.
As I approach my front door, my thoughts shift to plans for the rest of the day. It’s a weekday, so normally I’d be downstairs in one of the offices, working. But with Yara here, and still recovering, no less, the team reallocated some of my responsibilities so I can be around for her.
“It’s no different from when Indy was sticking close to Bea,” Rafe explained when we discussed it at the hospital. “Or after Noelle was rescued, and Webb took time off to be with her.”
“He’s right,” Indy chimed in. “I’m sure she’ll feel better, having you around. I don’t mind picking up some extra work. And I’m sure no one else does, either.”
Just as Indy predicted, Webb and Tyler were fine with it. Which means I’m effectively off for the rest of the week unlesssome sort of emergency comes up. I feel a little guilty about it, but at the end of the day, making sure Yara is okay is far more important.
I’ll make an early lunch first, I decide. Something with plenty of protein, complex carbs, and vitamins for healing. Then we’ll watch some TV, or maybe a movie, if there’s one Yara would like to see. After that, another nap, with her snuggled up against me.
With thoughts of Yara’s body tucked up against mine running through my mind, I unlock my door with a smile. Belatedly, I rap on the door in warning as I open it while calling out, “Hey, Tink. I’m home.”
But my smile fades when the view of my apartment isn’t what I’m expecting.
Instead of finding Yara on the couch, where I left her, she’s sitting at the dining room table, hunched over her laptop, typing away.
Her hands freeze above the keyboard—hands, as in plural, as in, she’s trying to type when she hasthreefreaking broken fingers—as she looks up at me. “Ace. How was your workout?”
“What are you doing?” It comes out rougher than I intended. But, shit. Why is she working on her laptop instead of resting? Why is she typing when she has three broken fingers?
“I’m working,” Yara replies calmly. “Even though I’m technically off work this week, I still have emails to go through, and we just beta-tested the newest version of our?—”
“Are youtyping?” I ask. “With your hand like that?”
“I’m trying.” She frowns. “It’s a little tough, trying to just use my two good fingers. But it’s still faster than doing it one-handed.”
Crossing the room in seconds, I close her laptop and slide it away from her. “You’re supposed to be resting, Yara. That’s what we decided when I left. You were going to stay on the couch and rest.”
“Ace.” There’s a hard note to her voice. She slides the laptop back towards her and opens it. “What do you think you’re doing? I was in the middle of writing an email.”
I push it away from her again. “And possibly injuring yourself in the process?”
“By typing?”
“Yes, by typing.” A distant part of my brain knows I’m overreacting. That Yara’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and she’s not exactly endangering herself by sitting at my dining table and sending a few emails.
But.
My gaze keeps moving between her splinted fingers, the bruises on her face, and the stark white bandage peeking out from her sleeve. And those are only the injuries I can see from here. I know that beneath her clothes, there are still more cuts and bruises hiding. Cuts that could get infected. Bruises that hurt her whenever she moves.
Then I look into her eyes, shadowed with bluish smudges of fatigue. From the nightmares that wake her up throughout the night, and the hours of lying awake after, too afraid to go back to sleep.
She hasn’t told me that part, but I’d put money on it. After all, I’ve been through it myself. The resignation that happens around four AM, when you finally decide the lack of sleep is a better alternative to the nightmares.
“You need rest,” I insist stubbornly. “Not to be worrying about work. And your hand—” I take her injured hand carefully in mine. “You might think it’s fine, but you could hurt yourself without meaning to. And the stress. You don’t need more stress right now.”
Yara’s gaze narrows as she looks at me. “You mean the stress of you closing my laptop without asking? Trying to stop me from working? That kind of stress?”
“I’m just worried about you.” I explain. “I know you think you don’t need?—”
She pulls her hand away. “You don’t know what I think. You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because.” Her jaw sets. “You didn’t ask. You just came storming in here, closed my laptop, and pushed it away from me. How would you feel if I went into your office and did that to you?”
As my irrational worry fades, regret replaces it. And along with it, the realization that I fucked up again.
