WILD MEN OF ALASKA

chapter SEVEN

“So we have some relationship issues to work out. An apology wouldn’t be out of order either.” He rubbed the upper shoulder of his broken arm, where the bullet had grazed him. Maybe if he acted like he was in pain, she’d cut him some slack. It wouldn’t be much of an act with his aching broken arm. “That bullet really hurt.”

“I sent you an apology.”

“One your therapist probably told you to write.”

“It was part of the program.”

“You were still angry with me.”

“Yes. I heard you went to the judge and testified against me. I’d already pled out. You made sure I was sent to jail.”

So much for cutting him some slack. “There wasn’t any other way I knew that would get you off the drugs.” He reached out to take her hand, but she linked them behind her back. His attention was caught by her breasts as the action lifted them front and center. God, she had beautiful breasts. What he would give if she let him...

The scowl on her face deepened. This wasn’t helping his cause either.

“Wren, I’d tried everything, but nothing worked. You were going to kill yourself if something drastic wasn’t done.”

“Sending me to jail almost killed me.”

That tore his attention away from her generous breasts. “What are you talking about?” Dread settled into his stomach. He’d had people looking out for her, keeping tabs, reporting back. He hadn’t heard of anything life threatening happening to her inside.

“Nothing.” She turned away from him.

He grabbed her arm and swung her around. “Tell me.”

“Get your hands off me.” She yanked her arm free of his grasp.

“You didn’t mind them a few minutes ago.”

“A few minutes ago I was out of my mind with cold and hunger.”

“You’re still cold and hungry.”

She growled. “Would you quit twisting my words?”

“Then be honest with me, and tell me what happened, damn it.”

“I almost ended it, okay.”

“What?”

She ran a hand through her hair, wincing as she brushed the bump on her head. “It was too much. The withdrawals, the confinement, not having you—it was just too much. One night, I tried to hang myself with the sheets from my bed.”

He sucked in a breath as his heart missed a beat. “Why wasn’t I told of this?”

“Probably because it didn’t work. I’m still here, aren’t I?” She arched a brow and folded her arms across her chest.

Well, shit. He remembered that look all too well. He shouldn’t have reminded her that he had spies in the jail reporting back to him. Maybe if they ate, figured out a way to warm up this busted plane, she’d be a little more open for sharing, talking. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with her and their relationship if he didn’t at least try.

A gust of wind, heavy with sleet, shook the plane. He shivered, realizing he still had on his wet shirt and his pants zipper wide open. He really needed the use of his other arm. To hell with his zipper. It didn’t bother him to be hanging out. But the shirt needed to go.

He struggled with the buttons, one-handed.

“Oh, for hell sake.” Wren brushed his hand out of the way. “You’re more work than a two-year-old.” She quickly freed the buttons of his shirt. She didn’t spare him a glance as his naked chest was revealed.

That was an ego buster. He’d worked hard on his body since they’d been apart. Building muscle had been his focus, that and his job, which the muscle came in handy for. And she didn’t even look. He had pecs, damn it, and abs.

She helped him peel the shirt free from his good arm and then carefully inched it over his broken one. She didn’t pause in what she was doing until the fabric fell away from his bullet-grazed shoulder.

She gasped, her fingers lightly tracing the area where her bullet had cut into him.

“See, I told you there was a scar,” he softly murmured, enjoying the delicate touch of her fingers on his cold skin.

Her eyes narrowed to slits.

Shit, he said the wrong thing again.

“You chose this scar and it’s not a scar. It’s a tattoo. Of a wren.”

And here he thought she’d appreciate the gesture.

“It’s a sight better than the ragged scar you left me with. It was damn hard to explain at the gym that my girlfriend shot me. If I’d gotten it in the line of duty, that would have been different. So I got the tattoo to camouflage it.” And it hurt a hell of lot worse than the bullet had.

“Of a wren?”

“Well, yeah. It was your mark, after all. Your brand.” He shrugged. “I liked it. Seems poetic in a way. Like you’re always with me.”

She briefly met his eyes, hers showing surprise and maybe a little wetness. He couldn’t tell for sure since she bent to rummage through his bag, yanking out a dry shirt. She found another button-down one, which would be the easiest—if not warmest—to get into with his broken arm.

He wanted to look into those expressive eyes again. “Wren.”

“Can we get you dressed so that I can eat something?”

She refused to look at him as she inched the fabric carefully over his broken arm. But he caught the rapid blinking. Was she crying? Had he chipped through that icy shell she’d been encased in since they’d boarded this doomed airplane?