Locke and Key (Titan Book 12) by Cristin Harber

Author:Cristin Harber [Harber, Cristin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romantic Suspense, Military Romance, Contemporay Romance
Publisher: Mill Creek Press
Published: 2017-05-01T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Cradled in Locke’s arms, Cassidy had an altogether different point of view of her home as they entered. Mostly because she was floating, in more than one way, and trying to put on a brave face as her headache waned but the cuts and scrapes screamed for attention.

“Over there, please.” She directed him toward the kitchen, where the nearest bottle of pain relievers was likely stashed in her purse.

They passed awards and newspaper clips that she had framed and hung on her wall. She wondered if Locke would react if he saw any of the clippings from Sadr City. They were a source of pride—as much as they were her downfall—and she’d decorated with them after she stopped winning awards for her writing and broadcasts as a reminder of where she had been and what she had survived and attained, so she could achieve all that again.

“Easy does it.” He placed her on the counter and went to a cabinet, on his first guess finding the glasses and then filling one with water.

Locke’s eyes lingered on the wall. He stood in front of the framed front-page Washington Journal spread on Cassidy’s sentencing. It was a source of pride, though Locke probably was of the group that thought she’d committed treason for journalistic integrity.

He didn’t mention it, though.

She reached for her purse and popped out the headache pills and then took the water he offered. She swallowed them down, semi-able to read his face. It didn’t have to do with the clippings or Sadr City reports. He was upset about her injuries. Or maybe a combination of the two things. “What is it?”

“You have mulch in your hair.” He picked a piece or two out, flicking them into the sink. “Ready to get cleaned up?”

She nodded, knowing that anywhere they went in the house would be like walking through a museum of her reporting. Not likely his favorite thing.

“Here? Where at?” he asked, not mentioning the magazine cover that her mom had framed and displayed across from the fridge. Cassidy couldn’t make a cup of coffee in the morning without the reminder that she’d been on top once and would get back there.

“I can run to my bathroom and bandage myself up.”

Locke’s brow lifted and said nuh-uh without him having to say a word.

“I want to stare at myself in the mirror. You don’t need to be party to that.” Cassidy half-laughed. “The cuts and bruises—I don’t know. They’re going to be like a badge of honor. I want to see them. Ugly and all.”

He stepped closer. “Nothing’s ugly, hon.”

The way he said it… Cassidy swallowed hard. Sometimes he didn’t say much, but he said everything. His voice rumbled, and his intonation was measured. Locke could hide a thousand meanings in a simple phrase. Warmth crawled up her neck. “Help me down.”

Just a nod. No words—just his capable hands on her waist—and still so much was said. He gently set her down as though she still had her dignity and wasn’t mulch-covered and scratched.

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