I desperately need Charlotte’s sunshine to wash away the darkness of the night.
To burn all my sins away.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Charlotte
Whatever happened tonight weighs heavily on Marcel. I follow him upstairs, holding his hand tight.
In all of my relief and joy to have my brother back, I didn’t stop to consider what Marcel might have done to get Carter back.
I’d asked him to kill. And he came home bloody.
At the door to his old room he hisses in a sharp breath. I rest my hand on his back. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He pushes open the door and we step inside. I reach for the overhead switch but he stops me. “Don’t.”
“I need to look at you.”
He tilts his head toward the bathroom. “I’ll clean up in the shower.”
“All right.” I reach up, gingerly slipping his cut off his shoulders. “Let me take care of this.” I turn and search the open closet for an empty hanger, draping the leather over it and dropping it over the metal bar. My eyes quickly scan the rest of the closet’s contents. A few T-shirts. A flannel. A pair of jeans. Boots. At least neither of us needs to run home to grab any clothes.
When I turn around, he’s still rooted in the same spot. Watching me.
“Come on.” I hold out my hand and he takes it.
In the bathroom, he drops onto the closed toilet lid and starts unlacing his boots. I slide the shower door open and flip on the hot water. When I return to Marcel’s side, he’s only managed to take his shoes and socks off.
“Where are the gloves you wore?” I ask.
He blinks up at me. “Incinerated.”
“Good.” I glance at his long-sleeved shirt and cargo pants, wishing he’d been able to burn those too. Although, driving home naked probably would’ve gotten him pulled over rather fast. “Kevlar?”
“In the truck.”
“I’ll grab it later. We’ll detail your truck tomorrow.” I lift my fingers, gesturing for him to put his arms up. “Hope you’re not attached to this shirt.” I grip the hem and tug it over his stomach. He lifts his arms, allowing me to draw it over his head.
“No.” He curls his hands around my hips, drawing me closer and rests his forehead against my stomach. I run my fingers through his hair, waiting for a sign he’s ready to continue. After a few heartbeats, I shift my hands lower, kneading his tight muscles.
“Let me see.” I push his shoulders.
He flicks his gaze to mine. Regret or pain flashes in his teal eyes.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
“Not really. It was rather straightforward. Not the worst—” He snaps his mouth shut.
I rest my finger under his chin. “You don’t have to hide any part of yourself from me. Nothing will ever change how I feel about you.”
“I’d rather not make you an accomplice after the fact,” he says in his usual blunt tone.
“Don’t forget our attorney-client privilege.” I wink at him. Then more seriously, I ask, “Is South of Satan going to be a future problem?”
“Not the Bennington, Vermont chapter.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Well, depends on what happens when their old president and his crew get out of prison.”
“If they get out of prison. Trip got a hefty sentence.”
“Right.” He flashes a quick smile. “Forgot what a good researcher you are.”
“How much of a loose end is June?”
“Don’t know.” He stares at the closed bathroom door. “They were pretty awful to her. Carter said she tried to take care of him and took a beating for it. We found her gagged and tied to a bed hidden in the back of a trailer.” He shakes his head like he wants to knock that image loose.
“Stand up,” I encourage and he complies. “Damn,” I hiss when I get a better look at his side. “This is a mess.”
He twists, trying to see the wound. “I pulled a big chunk of wood out of it.”
“Yeesh.” I work on unbuttoning his pants and he lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t get cocky,” I warn.
“I’m always cocky.”
“Don’t I know it.” I work his zipper and wince as I push his pants down. “I’m not into blood play. I just need your clothes out of my way.”
“Whatever you say, Sunshine.”
The inappropriate jokes are better than his dark silence and listless answers. They give me hope he’ll be okay. I reach up and press a quick kiss to his lips. “Let me clean this and then you can be as cocky as you want.”
“Mmm.” He lets out an interested growl and tugs at the collar of my T-shirt. “Take this off.”
“This isn’t one of the club’s naughty nurse pornos, buddy.”
He barks out a laugh, then winces, glancing at his side. “Has Downstate made a nurse porno?”
“How would I know? Probably,” I mutter, searching through the medicine cabinet. I finally find what I want and twist the taps, scrubbing my hands clean. “What did this?” I gesture to his torn flesh.
He twists again, the movement drawing attention to his inked skin rippling over firm muscles.
Not the time.
“A chunk of door.” He rubs his fingertips together. “Like one of those cheap particle board doors. Maybe a pellet from a shotgun. I pulled a piece about this big out.” He holds his thumb and index finger about three inches apart.
“Great. Who knows how filthy it was or if there are little splinters in there. It just had to find that small, unprotected section between your vest and pants.” I dry my hands and lay out each item I plan to use—gauze, peroxide, a bottle of liquid that says “wound care wash” and tweezers. “Let’s clean you in the shower first.”
He lifts an eyebrow and hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs, teasingly lowering and raising the material.
“Yes, yes, you’re incredibly sexy and I can’t wait to jump you.” I twirl two fingers in the air. “Now, hurry up.”
He points to my chest. “Seeing your tits would really speed up the healing process.”
I smother my smile—shouldn’t encourage his behavior—and strip off my T-shirt. “Better?”
He stares at my bra like he’s trying to burn it off my body with the power of his mind. “No.”
“Get in the shower.” I wave an exasperated hand in the air and bite my lip to hold in my laughter.
He steps in but leaves the door open. “I need your help.”
I strip off the rest of my clothes, grab one of the bottles from the sink, and join him. “Better?”
He cups my breasts. “Much.”
“Jesus.” I flick open the cap of the small bottle. “Stand under the spray for a minute.”
We switch places. He hisses through clenched teeth as the hot water slices over his skin. “Fuuuuck, that stings.”
“This probably won’t feel much better. Want a washcloth to bite on?” I ask, handing him a square of terrycloth.
“No, smart-ass.” He tips his head back, staring at the ceiling. “Just do it.”