Then he’d just push himself in front of a truck and die. If not happy, he’d at least be certain he’d done something worth doing.

  She’d settled, simply resting in his arms, quiet. Her eyes had closed. Her body was doing little convulsive jerks from nerves, but her legs had relaxed against the hold of his arm around them.

  His tunnel vision receded enough for him to realize that Thomas was at his elbow. Marcus was squatting by Rory’s feet, his hand resting on Daralyn’s back, adding to Rory’s strength. When Rory looked into Marcus’s face, he was startled to see something there he’d never seen before.

  Nerves.

  “I’m sorry, Rory,” he said. “I told you to forge ahead. Maybe that wasn’t the right thing.”

  For the past few days, a theory about Daralyn’s state of mind had been playing in Rory’s mind like a shy kid lurking in the shadows, afraid of being exposed to ridicule if it made itself known. But seeing the man who never doubted himself apologizing in the face of Daralyn’s chaotic response clicked something into place.

  Rory knew her. He stood in a spot in her soul they hadn’t visited. His theory was right. Daralyn herself had given him the confirmation, with that biblical quote.

  Those first couple weeks after his accident, there’d been some hope, that when the swelling went down, he’d get more mobility back. Even the possibility of walking again. Then they’d known for sure. There was no going back, no recovery. No walking again, even with braces. Not unless some major breakthrough happened in technology or spinal surgery.

  Hearing that it wasn't a matter of being determined enough, willing to do enough exercises, that this was permanent, had been one of the hardest things in his life to hear. It was then he’d begun to realize the full scope of all he’d lost. He’d had to set fire to the house that was his life to rise from the ashes, create something new.

  This had been that moment for her. That was why his gut refused to give in to his heart, let him think he’d fucked up. The surfeit of pleasure, of bliss in a lover’s arms, ironically a good moment pointed toward the future, not the past, had brought the past flooding in. A reminder of all that had been lost, and taken from her. But also an indication of what possibilities lay ahead.

  Grief was an ending, right before the door to the beginning. So, no. He wasn’t going to do her the disservice of beating himself up, thinking he’d pushed her the wrong way, triggered something irreparable. He wasn’t going to push her back into that box because of his own guilt.

  He held her closer. She wasn’t violent anymore, though she kept beating a light tattoo against his shoulder with her closed fist. Her head remained on the opposite shoulder, seeming like it was too heavy for her to hold it up. When he adjusted to obtain a better look at her face, tears were running down it like raindrops on glass, smooth and easy. Going the way of gravity, soaking into the earth of the past, but not salting it against the future. Just the opposite. He had to believe that.

  And just like his family had for him, he had to believe it for her, too, no matter how dark and lost she felt right now.

  He met Marcus’s anguished look, and briefly moved his own hand to touch his brother-in-law’s on Daralyn’s back, a reassurance. Surprise passed through Marcus’s gaze, reflected in Thomas’s when they exchanged a look.

  “It’s okay,” Rory murmured. “Everything’s all right. Sometimes the world just makes you so mad, you have to lose it, and the closest thing to tear apart is yourself.”

  Thomas nodded, covering Marcus’s hand so they all three had their hands on her, reassuring her. “Thanks for being here,” Rory said.

  Out of all of it, that was the hardest thing for him to say, since he wanted to always be the first one to protect her. But they’d had his back, as well as hers, and that was more important.

  He glanced back across the driveway and yard to her house. Since the porch light next to the still-open door was on, he’d be chasing moths out of the house for the rest of the night. “If one of you can carry her over there, let’s get her to bed.”

  He hated having to relinquish her, but he’d need both hands to cross the yard. He wouldn’t let pride get her dumped on the ground.

  “I’m okay,” Daralyn said unexpectedly. She pushed slowly out of their hold and stood, swaying. Her fingers clung to his briefly, before her hand slipped away. She didn’t look at any of them. Instead she tucked the robe around her, crossed her arms over her body and moved back toward the house at a tentative walk, her head down.

  Rory didn’t want to be far behind her, but he shot Thomas and Marcus an acknowledging glance. “I’m going to put her to bed, stay with her. She’ll be all right. We’re all right.”

  Thomas brushed a hand over Rory’s shoulder, brotherly affection. “Check yourself over good. You’ve got some scratches on your arms.”

  Shit. The last thing he wanted tonight was an injury to his legs that would require tending. Hopefully he hadn’t hit anything on his topple from the chair.

  “I hear you, Mom,” he said, amiable about it. “Stop looking so worried.”

  Thomas’s faint smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Tell yourself that. Your hands are shaking, and you look a little pale.”

  “You know where we are if you need us,” Marcus added. Even as he put a reassuring hand on Thomas, his glance returned to the cottage, watching after Daralyn.

  “It’s good,” Rory told him. He hoped Marcus understood, because he couldn’t explain how he knew that. He just did.

  After Rory followed Daralyn into the cottage and closed the door, Marcus and Thomas returned to their own porch. Marcus wasn’t surprised when Thomas took a heavy seat on the front stoop. Marcus sat down next to him, putting a hand on his broad back. Thomas was understandably shaken up, but reassuring him helped Marcus settle down himself.

  Daralyn’s feral behavior had been startling, but the big shock had been Rory’s comparative steadiness. Thinking about that put more confidence into the words Marcus spoke to Thomas now.

  “He’s okay. They both are.”

  Thomas ran a hand over his face. “Fuck, he was right for kidding me about acting like Mom. I was about to demand he take off his pants so I could check him myself.”

  “Good luck with that. He’d never strip around me.”

  Humor flitted through Thomas’s gaze, but he remained serious. “He’s strong, Marcus, but he’s also vulnerable to infection. Plus a bunch of other stuff when he gets stressed, mentally or physically. Weaker immune system, and his heart and lungs are more at risk, because he’s in a chair.”

  “He does the PT regularly,” Marcus reminded him. “Which includes standing cardio. They strap him into that machine that I personally think could convert to some very interesting uses in the off hours. PT room by day, BDSM dungeon by night.”

  “Tell Rory that and he’ll never go to PT again.” Thomas sighed. “I know he’s an adult now, and he takes care of himself, does all the things he should to keep himself healthy. Hell, he’s grown up so much. Left behind a lot of the baggage. And out there, with her…who’d have thought he’d turn out to be that mature of a Dom, this soon?” He shot an amused look at Marcus. “Must be the mentor he has.”

  Marcus grunted. “Didn’t feel that way when I saw her. It’s different with your own sub. I thought I’d fucked up, given him advice based more on you than on her.”

  “No.” Thomas touched his knee, leaned against him, drawing and giving strength at the same time. “Though I don’t like to think about it much, you were a hell of an experienced Master, long before I met you. You knew Rory was going to figure this out. And he did.”

  Thomas gazed across the yard to the cottage. The blinds were still drawn, but the lights were on and all was quiet. “When he came out, he was as freaked out as we were, but then something clicked, kicked in, when he reached her.”

  Hearing Thomas confirm what he’d seen steadied him further, too. Marcus ran a hand down Thomas’s back, hooked his thumb in the waistband of his jeans.

  “And damn if she didn’t respond to it, right in front of us.” Thomas looked at him. “At that moment, I couldn’t have raised my voice to her the way he did to save my life, or hers. I’m not even sure you could have.”

  “Hmm. When it comes to Daralyn, I think we both have a serious big brother, little sister complex. Rory doesn’t.” Marcus nudged Thomas. “And don’t be too freaked out by his sudden onset of maturity. He’ll have a snarky, angry moment tomorrow and remind you why he’s your annoying little brother.”

  “Even the anger… It’s still there, but he manages it better. It seems more targeted at the people who hurt her. Which is totally understandable.”

  “Yeah. A lot of that to go around.” Marcus’s expression clouded, his green eyes thoughtful. Thomas touched his leg, drawing his gaze.

  “Hey. You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Marcus pulled himself out of his head, gripped Thomas’s shoulder and gave it a hard squeeze. He had a sudden desire to be balls-deep in his sub. It would remind him that the bond between a Dom and sub could go to depths beyond the complete comprehension of anyone else. Even other Doms or subs.

  “Let’s head back in. For tonight, he’s got it. He’s got her.”

  Chapter Eight

  When Rory closed the door behind him, Daralyn had stopped in the kitchen. She stood there shivering, the muddy robe drawn around her, one hand clutching and unclutching the thick fabric.

  His certainty in the yard faltered. He stood witness to a battered soul, a person who’d lived a life directly opposite from what normal meant to him. The idea that he could guide her onto a shared path with him seemed ludicrous. But she couldn’t afford his doubt, so he put it aside.

  “Daralyn.”

  She turned to him. The aftermath had set in, her gaze filled with misery and regret. Self-flagellation. He wasn’t going to allow that.

  “Get me the hand towel by the sink.”

  She picked it up and padded across the kitchen to him, moving as if she carried a bag of boulders. After he took the towel from her hand, a whimsical thing with purple flowers printed on it, he draped it over his wheel. Reaching out, he uncurled her hands from the robe, pushed it off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a damp weight.

  Before she could shiver, he’d reclaimed her hand and brought her into his lap. He spoke softly. “Bring your legs up. Brace your feet against my push rim.”

  She did, and she was curled up against him, his arm around her back. He used his other hand to clasp the towel and wipe off her legs. Then he tossed it away and clasped her thigh, the one not pressed against him, to keep her in that folded up position. She’d knotted her hands against his shirt front, tucking her head under his chin. Since he’d unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt when he took off his tie, he felt her cheek against his skin.

  “Hold onto me with both arms.”

  She slid them around him, and it freed his hands to push them back into her bedroom. Once there, he stopped by the bed, pulled back the covers. “Come get under the blankets.”

  “I had such a nice time tonight. I really did.”

  “I did, too. Still am. I’m right where I want to be, Daralyn. Get under the covers. You’re cold, and I don’t like that. Face the back window.”

  That last direction won him a puzzled look, but she reluctantly left his lap. She settled under the covers on her side, facing away from him.

  “Stay like that. I’m going to get in the bed behind you, help you be warmer.”

  He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged out of it. A peculiar stillness came over her, telling him she was aware of what he was doing. He pulled the undershirt over his head. Worked off the slacks and his shoes and socks. He didn’t usually wear underwear, since it was another layer of material that could crease and cause a skin issue. However, since he’d worn the suit tonight, he’d donned dark boxer briefs, which he was glad for now. He’d leave those on, sending the message he wasn’t going to ask for more from her.

  He did a quick check with eyes and hands to confirm everything below the waist looked and felt good, no broken skin or blood.

  “Can I look over my shoulder at you?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  When she did, concern crossed her expression as she noted a red mark on his thigh. He’d already seen it himself, knew it was probably something he’d hit when he’d fallen out of his chair. “It’s okay,” he said. “The skin’s not broken. It might bruise, but it’s not a big deal. Hey.”

  Her face had creased like she was in pain. He leaned forward, bracing himself with one hand on the bed while he cupped her face. “Turn back toward the other way. I want to get you warm.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “I know that.” He tightened his grip, looked her in the eye. “Do as I say.”

  She turned. He normally needed to rearrange his pillows to pad between his knees and other places susceptible to pressure sores, but this was fine for a short period. He didn’t want any barriers between them. When he was finally in the right position to put his arm around her waist, and she scooted her butt into the cradle of his pelvis, it was more than worth the risk.

  He could feel the give of her buttocks against those faint tingling spots in his thighs, her back against his chest, her side against his circling arm.

  He pressed his face into her hair, inhaling her. He was holding her in his arms, naked and smooth, a bundle of sweet female scents. The little quivers he felt had to be stress, but maybe other things, too.

  “I loved watching you climax,” he murmured. “Did it feel good?”

  A pause, then a slow nod. “I’m sorry about after.”

  He tightened his arm around her. “You don’t apologize to me, not ever, unless I ask you for that. Got it?”

  After a long moment, she nodded again.

  “Good.” He paused. "Did you ever talk to Les about sex?”

  He steeled himself against the horror of the possibility, but since his sister was a grown woman, he'd get through it.

  "No." She shook her head. "No one talks to me about this. Except you."

  "Have you talked to the head doc about it? Particularly the way your uncle reacted to you getting worked up like that? Having an orgasm?"

  Which made him recall her next appointment with Dr. Taylor was tomorrow morning. Good timing.

  "We talk about other things. Until now…it wasn't a topic we needed to cover. She says I need to, but I haven’t.”

  While she seemed to respond well to his commands, he wouldn’t go that route on this. "Can you do me a favor? Can you bring it up with her?"

  "I'll try. Yes. But I feel better…when you talk to me about it."

  "I'm worried about fucking up, honey. Saying the wrong thing."

  She tilted her head enough to look back at him. "Sometimes I think people are too careful around me. You know what I mean?"

  Yeah, he did.

  Her smile was tremulous around the edges. "It's like they think I'm carrying a bomb inside me, and if they say or do the wrong thing, I'll explode into a million pieces.” Her expression sobered. “But I guess I proved that’s what can happen.”

  “That’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re dealing with a lot. What I’m trying to say is that’s why she’s there. Like my example about the PT. She’s someone trained to help you with anything I can’t, or you can’t figure out yourself. Just a suggestion, okay?”

  Slow nod again. He had his hand over hers, and she moved it so his palm was over her breasts, his fingers resting in the hills and valleys, and then she cupped her other hand over that, pressed her hips deeper into the cradle of his. Anyone else, he’d say she was purposefully trying to tease him, but it was more like she was burrowing while trying to pull him around her like a blanket. He could do that.

  He nudged her hair aside, put his lips to her neck, nuzzling her. “I liked watching you go over that edge, explode a whole different way.”

  He stroked her breast, fingers extending from where she held their hands tangled. “I want to do that to you again.”

  Her fingers quivered. “I’m afraid I’ll…explode the other way again.”

  “Did it feel good to you, before that?”

  She thought about it. “Yes,” she said at last.

  “Then don’t worry about it. When you open a valve, the water pressure is intense. After that, it levels out, pours out in a smooth stream.”

  Her lips pressed together. He lifted his head enough to get a better look at her, and narrowed his eyes when he caught a smirk. “You’re trying not to laugh at me.”

  The smile broke through, and she did chuckle a little. He gave her a reproving pinch on her buttock, then smoothed his hand over it, resisting the very strong urge to fondle, take a firmer grip and knead. “So you don’t think I should pursue a career as a romance author? Or a poet?”

  “I think you are a very good store manager.”

  He laughed out loud. Her head turned, her eyes roving over his face, her lips parting.

  She obviously liked watching him laugh. When she lifted her fingers to touch his mouth, he kissed them, then cupped her face, running a caressing thumb over her cheek. Her eyes grew thoughtful again. She settled her head back onto the pillow, dipped her head over their hands.

  “What are you thinking?” he said, putting his mouth back to her throat, teasing there, giving her a hint of teeth. She shivered at the edge.

  “Can I do that for you?” she said. “What you did for me?”

  It didn’t surprise him that she’d thought of that. She was unfailingly generous, always thinking of ways she could help and serve others.

  “You sure can. When I tell you it’s okay. Right now, I want to take my time enjoying your body, your reactions. All that arousal that happens between your legs? Eventually I want to taste it. Put my mouth there, make you come that way.”

  She stilled. He wanted to ask her what she was thinking about that, but he decided to go another way. “You seemed to like the spanking the other night. It didn’t seem to upset you.”