At The Hour Of Our Death by Aubrey Taylor

Author:Aubrey Taylor [Taylor, Aubrey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Independent
Published: 2023-07-03T16:00:00+00:00

27

twenty seven

“I’ll find you some clothes,” she said to him, running the warm water over her hand. The stream rinsed her skin of his blood and the soot from the fire down the drain but she wished it had dragged her anxiety and worry down with it.

Jack leaned on the door frame; his body battered from head to toe. The blood on his face had become stuck and dried in a thick red line down his stern face and into his beard. It dripped down his arm and in the rigid curves of his strained abdomen, drenching the hem of his boxers and continuing down over his thick thighs. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, taking his weight off the sore leg that still looked swollen and red around the wound.

He watched her as she stood, drawing the curtain for him and extending her hand. He grumbled something about being able to get in the shower himself but accepted the help and leaned on her for support.

He hissed as the water hit his burns, his face scrunching up into a tight ball as he held his breath and worked through the searing pain. Beckett tried to let go but his grip was cemented, and his fingers dug into the base of her wrist. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered, his face finally relaxing as he looked away from her.

She hated that the barrier remained up, that he couldn’t just ask her for help. That he could barely look at her while he did so but she couldn’t refuse him. No matter how badly she wanted to tell him no, to tell him to look her in the eyes when he asked, she couldn’t do it. Instead in the quiet of her bathroom, she stripped from her work-stained and ruined work clothes and climbed into the shower behind him.

Her mouth fell open, grief grasping her tightly as she took in the state of his muscular back. She had never seen it before, not this close, not in such a well-lit space. It was littered with more scars than his front, at least twelve bullet shaped circles dug into his skin. She traced one that rested above his shoulder blade and chewed on her lip in a sad attempt to hold back her tears. She felt him tense under her feathery touch, knowing what she was seeing he tried to hide his pain from her.

Words didn’t seem enough, nothing she could say would erase that pain. She could never take away these scars. So she wrapped her arms up and around him, pressing her face into his back, avoiding what wounds and bruises she could, and breathed him in. He linked his hand to hers and let the water run down over them as a pair. She refused to admit it but the shower was exactly what her body and mind needed. A moment to reel from the last hour of panic and stress. When she had told them no more late-night medical

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