Chapter 21

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"Did you get a look at the vehicle?" Ambrose asks as he cleans the cuts on my hands and knees.

He'd insisted on healing me, even though I'd told him it wasn't necessary—it was only a few scrapes, after all—but he'd told me that this type of injury was by far the easiest to heal.

"Stings a bit, and then it's done," he'd said. "I barely feel it."

First, though, the abrasions had to be cleaned and disinfected, and that's why I'm perched on the kitchen counter in my underwear, feeling like a kid who fell off his bike, while Ambrose gently washes the blood and dirt from my torn skin.

"No," I say, answering his question. "The headlights were too bright, and then I was too busy not getting killed."

He swabs my knee with antiseptic and I hiss at the sting.

"Sorry—nearly finished," he says, businesslike and bending close to inspect the injury. "And... you're quite sure it was a deliberate attempt on your life? And not just your everyday variety of bad driver?"

"Pretty damn sure," I reply. "Why else would someone wait until I was in the middle of the street before stomping on the gas? They meant to hit me, Ambrose, at the very least."

Frowning, he straightens and sets his materials aside, then moves back in front of me, quite close, and places a hand on each of my knees. The pain quickly fades and then vanishes beneath his touch, but he doesn't release me and I find myself growing uncomfortably aware of his nearness, and of the fact that I'm in my underwear, and that he's standing between my legs.

"I'm glad you're alright, little wolf," he says, with quiet gravity, "and it certainly sounds like an intentional attack. But why? Are there many people who want you dead?"

"Not that I'm aware," I say, almost laughing at the thought and trying to contain the heat steadily building in my chest. "It must be connected to the case, don't you think? The thief, maybe sending a warning for Dane to back off."

Ambrose studies me, his eyes traveling my features as though he might find the answer there. "I'm no detective, but that doesn't fit the pattern so far. Not that it's impossible, of course. We'll have to see what that brother of yours has to say about it."

"It's a good thing you were here tonight," I comment wryly and reach up to adjust my glasses, which by some miracle escaped harm. "Dane can't accuse you of trying to run me over, at least."

"He doesn't like me much, does he?" Ambrose asks, quirking a brow.

"He doesn't know you," I say, wondering if he's ever going to let go of my knees.

"He's protective of you, and doesn't want to see you hurt," he replies quietly. "I suppose he knows you have been, already?"

Flinching, I look away, feeling uncomfortably exposed and wondering exactly what Ambrose sees when he looks at me—if my shattered heart is laid bare in all its mangled glory to his eyes. "He knows enough," I say, and swallow.

Finally releasing his hold on my knees, Ambrose lifts his hands to my face and gently forces me to look at him. "I meant it, Noah, when I said that I wished yours was the kind of hurt that I could heal. I know from experience it is not—but like all wounds, air and light will do it good. You'll tell me about it—soon, I think—when you're ready."

I scoff at that. "Oh really? The same way I'll ask you to kiss me, huh?"

This, I'd decided, I would never do, no matter how much I wanted to.

Ambrose clearly wants me to as well, judging by the way he's looking at me now, with eyes like night ringed in fire.

He nods. "Yes. The very same."

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