She stared at the now closed door, her heart thumping.
Her throat filled with a thick lump.
Love.
“Oh boy.” Her whisper sounded like a shout in the room.
And then Chris barged into the room, his world-famous grin nowhere to be seen, his normally artfully mussed hair a wild mess.
“Jesus, sis.” He hurried to the side of her bed and wrapped his fingers around hers. “Don’t you ever fucking do that to me again.”
“What? Get blown up?”
He didn’t laugh at her lame joke. Nor did the doctor who followed him into her room.
“Ah, there’s that wicked sense of humour I remember so well,” the doctor who’d tended to Chris in the ER two nights ago deadpanned. “How are you feeling, Ms. Hemsworth?”
Rowan looked up at him, her heart still beating far too fast for its own good.
Love. Christ, Aslin Rhodes loved her.
“Rowie?”
“Do you still hear a ringing in your ears, Ms. Hemsworth?”
She blinked at the steely haired doctor. “A little.”
He plucked an instrument from his top pocket, leant forward at the hip and shined a light into her right eye. “I must say, for someone who was knocked backward by an explosion, you are looking remarkably well.” He flicked the light to her left eye. “If somewhat shell-shocked.”
“I…”
“Aslin said you’re feeling better.” Chris tightened his fingers around hers. His stare roamed over her face. “Jesus, sis, you scared the shit out of me.”
Rowan smiled at him. “I’m fine, squirt.”
“No, you’re not.” He shook his head. “Someone is trying to hurt you.”
Rowan’s stomach dropped. “What?”
Chris frowned. “Someone is trying to hurt you. Didn’t Aslin tell you?”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No. But it’s fucking obvious, isn’t it?”
The doctor cleared his throat, pocketed his tiny flashlight and pinned Rowan with a steady inspection. “Is this something the officers waiting outside need to hear?”
Rowan shook her head, and then winced a little as a dull pain sliced through it. “No. It’s the product of an overactive imagination.”
“Rowie,” Chris began, but Rowan leveled a hard look at him, and he fell silent.
She returned her attention to the doctor. “How long do I have to be here for, doctor?”
The elderly medical practitioner’s lips pursed. “The greatest concern now is traumatic brain injury.” He gave Chris a quick look. “That’s where the brain gets knocked about in the skull.”
“She’s got a pretty thick skull, doc.”
The doctor chuckled. “Why am I not surprised? Anyway, our scans revealed nothing when you were first admitted, but I want to be sure, which means I’m keeping you in here for twenty-four hours. Minimum.”
Rowan frowned. “Twenty-four hours? Really?”
The doctor nodded. “Minimum.”
“Can I check myself out?”
Silver eyebrows rose. “Why would you do that?”
Because I can’t be the victim. I won’t.
“Because I’m not good in hospitals.”
Chris’s warm hand in hers grew firmer. “It’s okay, Rowie,” he said, his voice low. “You’re safe. I won’t leave you. Promise.”
Rowan’s throat constricted. She looked at her brother. At the only person who had mattered in her life since her parents’ murder.
And yet now there was another—one who wanted to protect her when the last thing she wanted was to be protected. One who could do it—keep her safe—without raising a sweat.
One who loved her.
So why was she so damn confused?
And scared?
Chapter Twelve
If the cop said another word, Aslin was going to beat the shit out of him.
The officious git stood beside the police tape, hand up, palm out—the same position he’d assumed the second Aslin approached him—and informed anyone who cared to listen that Aslin’s trailer was a crime scene and no one was allowed past the tape.
Alsin had no beef with cops. They did a thankless job. They put their life on the line daily. But this cop was in his way. This cop was stopping him from investigating who the fuck was trying to hurt Rowan—no, kill Rowan—and being a git about it.
“I’m sure you movie folk think you can do whatever you want,” he was saying for the umpteenth time, lip curled in disdain, belly hanging over his belt, “but this isn’t the movies. It’s real police work now.”
“All I want to do—” Aslin began. For the umpteenth time.
“Real police work,” the cop repeated, enunciating each syllable in an exaggerated volume. “So you will have to—”