Jasmine isn’t the only one who doesn’t always trust the cops.
He had an agreement with Carson. Carson took care of Drake’s employees and any…unusual situations that might occur. And Carson kept a fat bank account.
“I’ve got your bedroom set up for her.” Carson waved his hand down the hallway. “Standard rate will apply, of course.”
Drake carried Jasmine down the hallway. He carefully arranged her on the bed, and when he pulled back, he saw her blinking groggily. Hell, had the woman passed out for a few moments? Just how much blood had she lost? His hand went to the hem of her shirt. Blood was thick on her side, soaking the material.
She tried to bat his hands away.
“Do I need to sedate her?” Carson asked. He already had a syringe in his hand.
Jasmine’s head turned at his voice. Her eyes widened. Sounding utterly horrified, she demanded, “Why is a GQ model coming at me with a needle?”
Carson flushed a dark red.
Drake laughed. “He’s the doctor, and he’s coming at you because he’s worried you won’t stay calm while he sews you up.”
“I’ll stay calm.” She shook her head. “Not my first time…to be stitched.”
His eyes narrowed at that. “You get sliced up a lot?”
Carson put down the syringe. He arranged his instruments, and then his gloved hands reached for Jasmine’s shirt. He cut the shirt away when it stuck to her.
Drake’s teeth clenched as he got a look at the damage. That was sure no little scrape. “He wanted to hurt you.”
“He didn’t like being out—outsmarted at the Arrow.” She hissed out a breath when Carson started probing her wound, but her eyes didn’t leave Drake’s face. “It was his payback.”
Carson was carefully cleaning the wound. “She’s gonna need about five, maybe six stitches. Not nearly as bad as I thought it would be. I’ve seen a lot worse.”
“So have I,” Drake said. Back when he’d been in the military, he’d seen images so brutal and bloody that they still chased him into his nightmares. And after he’d left duty, well, his business dealings hadn’t exactly gotten any prettier.
His gaze slid over Jasmine’s wound, then up…almost helplessly. She still had on a bra, a black, lacy thing that pushed up her br**sts. Fabulous br**sts. She was hurt and weak and he shouldn’t be noticing them but he did and—
“At least this side will match the other,” Carson said, voice droll. “Guess someone likes to play with knives, huh?”
Drake’s attention immediately shifted to her left side. Sure-damn-enough, there was a faint white scar there.
“I’m not the one who plays.” Her voice was quiet. “I’m the one who has the bad luck to get hurt.”
His gaze came back to rest on her face.
Her eyes were waiting for him. So dark and deep.
“Turn more onto your left side,” Carson instructed her. “I need a good angle for the needle.”
She started to turn. Drake quickly leaned forward. His hands eased her over and, once she was positioned for Carson, he didn’t let her go. Her skin was so soft and warm.
He didn’t let her go.
“You sure that you don’t want something for the pain?” Carson asked her.
“I hate drugs.” Her stare still held Drake’s. “Never touch them. Alcohol is as far as I will go.”
“Uh, you want some booze to help—”
“Do it,” Jasmine said, cutting through Carson’s words. “Or else I might be passing out again soon. I hate the sight of blood. Especially when it’s my own.”
Carson went to work. Jasmine sucked in a sharp breath and her hand flew out.
Her fingers, still marked by her blood, locked around Drake’s. She held him tightly. Tighter than anyone had ever held him before. As if he were her lifeline.
When he wasn’t. He was more like her destruction.
“How’d she get sliced?” Carson asked as he leaned over.
Drake shook his head. “You know the drill. You don’t get to ask questions.” Mostly because the guy was better off not knowing the answers.
A tear slid down Jasmine’s cheek. But she didn’t make a sound, and her expression never altered. She just kept staring up at Drake. Kept holding his hand. “I love your eyes,” she whispered.
He blinked at that. Uh, was the lady getting delirious?
“I’ve never seen quite that shade of green before. Your eyes…they tell me that you can’t be as bad as the stories say.”
Drake knew there were plenty of stories circulating about him.
His right hand kept holding hers. His left rose and wiped away the tear tracks on her cheek. Then he leaned in close to her. “You’re wrong. I’m even worse than they say.”
If she knew the full truth about him…but then, only Noah and Trace were aware of all he’d done. The deaths. The lies.
They knew because their pasts were as twisted as his own.
“Why did the picture matter?” The question slipped from him.
A furrow appeared between her brows.
“Two more,” Carson said, voice sounding strangely chipper.
She flinched. Held Drake even tighter.
“You were going to steal my files, but you saw the picture in my desk, and you changed your mind.”
Her lips trembled. “So you did have a camera up there.” He heard the faint click of her swallow. “Were you going to record us having sex?”
Carson coughed. “Wow. I don’t think I need to hear—”
“No,” Drake ignored him. “When we have sex, that’s for us. You and me, and no one else. Not ever.”
“When?” She licked her lips. “Sounds like someone still has plans.”
“I do.”
She wasn’t crying anymore. Not those silent tears that had made his chest ache. She was staring at him with a sharp gleam in her eye.
“Done,” Carson said, sounding exceedingly relieved. “Now I can get the hell out of here, but I do think I need to give some doctorly advice…no rough sex for a bit, okay? Hold off on that chandelier swinging a while because I just patched the girl up.”
Drake looked over and saw that Carson had put a bandage over Jasmine’s wound. The tightness in his chest eased. No more pain for her.
Ever.
He shook his head. His thoughts were screwed up tonight. Probably because he’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours straight. He should crash but…