Chapter Twelve

R uger put another sack on the counter. Rachel removed the food that belonged in the fridge, stepped across the small kitchen, and put them away.

"That's the last bag." Ruger peeled back the cardboard on the beer case and took out a can. "Put this in the bottom of the refrigerator."

She put the cans in one by one, stacking them above the now full fruit and vegetable drawer. Ruger had borrowed a truck that Havlin Motorcycle Club owned and went shopping to stock the kitchen and bathroom. He also bought bedding that would fit the bed that came with the house. Along with furnishings, the house came with all appliances, including a washer and dryer.

Everything was in great shape. Much better than what she was used to living at home. Her brother tended to buy things second-hand or steal what they needed. Nothing was ever brand new.

From the moment Ruger told her he was getting a house for the both of them, her mood lifted at the prospect of living with him. Though, she kept reminding herself that it wasn't permanent.

Ruger made no mention of what his offer to live with him meant. She was afraid to assume it suggested he wanted her around. But those thoughts crept in and warmed her to a dizzying level.

Ruger pushed a KFC bucket toward her. "Hungry?"

The smell alone had her stomach growling. "Yeah."

"Dish us up a meal on those paper plates I bought." Ruger motioned to the counter.

She couldn't remember the last time she had fried chicken. Inhaling deeply, anticipating the meal. The mashed potatoes and gravy. The buttery roll.

Instead of making him eat standing beside the counter, she carried the plates to the simple two-person table underneath the window on the opposite side of the kitchen.

Sitting across from him, she quivered in awareness of the proximity. Even though they had more room in the cottage than in the room at the clubhouse, the atmosphere seemed smaller and more intimate. It was also quiet. Just the two of them.

She held her hands above the table, wavering on what to do. Normally, she'd use her fingers, but she'd never eaten chicken in front of someone besides her brother and his friends. "I should get forks."

Ruger held a piece of chicken in his hand and motioned at her plate. "I'll grab them. Go ahead and eat your chicken."

She picked the meat off the breastbone and put the piece in her mouth. The salty seasoning hit her tongue and exploded. She closed her eyes and moaned. It was the best thing she'd tasted in her life.

Opening her eyes, she picked another piece of meat from the bone and popped it in her mouth. She licked her fingers and caught Ruger staring at her. His food was forgotten.

She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth and swallowed. "Sorry."

"Don't." He tilted his head. "Ever. Be. Sorry."

She leaned against the table, getting closer to him. "The chicken is delicious."

Eating was a second thought to her since Ruger saved her from the kidnappers. But today, her appetite returned with a vengeance.

He bit into the meat and grunted. She smiled, knowing he enjoyed the meal, too. It was crazy to be that happy when her life had completely fallen apart. But Ruger made her feel safe. He gave her the normalcy she only dreamed about having as a child. Something her dad and brother never achieved.

After she finished her chicken piece and half the mashed potatoes, she retrieved a Solo cup from the package Ruger had bought earlier and filled it with water.

Ruger stepped around her, throwing his trash in one of the grocery sacks and hanging it on the knob to the cabinet underneath the sink. "I'll have to get a trash bin."

She nodded. Earlier, they'd tried to think of everything they'd need to live in the cottage. She knew they'd forget a few things. The lack of unnecessary items never bothered her. She was happy as long as he was with her. It was easy enough to use the empty grocery sacks for trash—she'd done it many times before when living at home.

He'd done more than required for her to be comfortable in the cottage. She'd happily sleep on the floor if only to stay with him.

"What's that smile for?"

She put down the cup and flew at him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and pressed her body against him. Closing her eyes, she could only show him how much she appreciated him by touching him.

She'd been with him long enough to know he wasn't much of a talker. He shrugged off any intimacy, even though she could see how he looked at her. Nobody had taken such care of her, protecting not only her well-being but her mental state.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He kissed the top of her head. She sighed, wishing he'd kiss her on the lips and hold her longer. Instead, he stepped away from her and went into the living room.

She stood, dazed and with a full stomach from dinner.

Voices from the television filled the cottage, shaking her out of wishing for things out of her reach. She cleaned the kitchen and finished putting the remaining groceries in the cabinet. He'd even bought real silverware and a few sharp knives. Though, they'd have to wait until he bought dish soap. It was one of the household items they forgot on the list.

She put the knives in the sink. Pain heated her finger. She yelped, jerked her hand up, and grabbed her finger.

Blood sprang to the surface. The room spun. She swayed.

"I've got you." Ruger wrapped his arm around her, giving her a sturdy base to lean against.

Her stomach rolled, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

"I'm going to press down on your finger."

She braced herself. The pressure came and eased the stinging. Opening her eyes, she gazed at Ruger's broad hand, squeezing a white paper napkin on her pointer finger.

"Breathe, Rach." Ruger's arm around her waist tightened.

"Sorry."

"Stop."

She inhaled a ragged breath. "I should've been more careful."

"It was an accident." He peeled back the napkin. "Look, it's already stopped bleeding."

She exhaled out her pursed lips. "I feel sick."

"It's the blood."

She shook her head. Blood had never made her feel like throwing up before. She had blood covering her from all the injuries she suffered at the hands of the men who'd kidnapped her. She'd seen Ruger bleed continually through the day as she leaned against him, praying he wouldn't die in the night.

"You've seen a lot. Been through a lot. That shit can come back and kick your ass when you least expect it," he mumbled, continuing to hold her finger. "Keep your finger straight, and come and sit down on the couch."

He led her into the other room. She held her hand on the couch, keeping her finger straight, when he left the room.

Ruger returned, holding a small tube of Super Glue. She shook her head. She'd seen her brother use that on his cuts before.

"No." She held her finger away from him. "It'll close on its own."

"We don't have Band-Aids yet." Ruger sat beside her and held his hand, beckoning her to turn toward him. "You need it sealed to keep it from getting an infection.

"It's going to sting."

"A little."

She trembled. Sometimes, the idea of hurting again overwhelmed her. She dreaded getting hurt, or hurting more, after all the abuse she'd suffered.

"Rachel."

She turned toward him and held out her hand. Swallowing hard, she braced for the pain.

Ruger opened the squeeze tube of glue. She couldn't look. Instead, she watched Ruger's eyes intensely, studying the tip of her finger. Used to the serious side of him, she marveled at how sexy he became when he concentrated.

So intent on gluing the cut together on her finger, he dropped the stern expression always planted on his face. As soon as he finished with the glue, he brought her finger up and blew a steady, cool stream of air on the cut.

Soothed and cared for, she sagged in her seat. His lips were no longer hardened into a thin line, practically hidden behind his mustache. They were full and tender. She sighed, imagining them on her mouth, her skin.

The second the glue dried, he quit blowing, and the hardness returned to his face. She cupped his jaw and stroked the lines at the corner of his eye.

He turned that seriousness on her. Her insides quivered. The pain in her finger was forgotten.

"Rach." His tone reprimanded her, but the burning desire in his eyes told her he liked when she touched him. "Don't."

She lowered her hand. He left her side and went into the bedroom. She couldn't stop how she felt toward him. While he had needs, he refused to see her for anything other than Shady's little sister.

The tip of her finger pounded.

He always told her no, as if it was her fault that she was attracted to him. She was old enough to know what she wanted. She hadn't been a virgin since she was sixteen years old. It wouldn't hurt either one of them if they had sex and enjoyed being together.

They slept in the same bed.

They lived in the same cottage.

How long was he going to keep pushing her away?