She hadn’t been allowed to try walking.
“Help me stand up.” She wanted out of the damn chair.
“Not yet.”
“Yes, yet. If you want me to meet with your Doc, you’ll help me stand up.” She dared him to tell her no again.
His jaw tightened and his gaze hardened. “You’ll meet with the doc because that’s what you need to do. Stop being st—” He swallowed the words.
“Stop being what? Stubborn? Stupid? Logan, I have been flat on my back or sitting in a bed for weeks. I don’t even know if I can stand up, and no one seems willing to let me try. If I’m a wheelchair bound crip for the rest of my days, I need to know.”
The words poured out like battery acid, burning through reason and patience. She couldn’t close her hand. What if she never stood? What if she never walked? What the hell kind of life would she build that way?
What could she offer to either of the guys? She didn’t want either one pitying her, and they deserved a lot more than a shattered woman, still hung up on how to choose between them. She had to be able to stand.
On her own two damn feet.
“Breathe.”
“Stop fucking telling me to breathe. I know how to breathe. It’s inhale and exhale.” Only she panted in shallow, swift breaths. Her heart thudded a steady gallop in her chest, and the sweat beading her forehead dripped down her cheeks.
His fingers dug into her hands, shackling them in sharp, compressed pain. “I will when you calm your pulse back down.”
He pressed his thumb against her wrist. Awareness punched through her haze of vision. He didn’t grip only her hand. He held her fists. Both of them, away from him.
“It’s a fist.” She stared at her right hand, a bubble of hysterical laughter wobbling up. “I made a fist.”
“I see that. Well done. You back with me now?” Logan’s guarded words filled her with apprehension.
The day hadn’t seemed to change. The sun still shone brightly on the sidewalks beyond their shady escape. Birds chirped overhead. A squirrel scrabbled down into the grass, completely ignoring them on its quest for whatever the hell squirrels looked for when they ran around. She still sat in the wheelchair, but her right leg was out on the ground, and Logan had her body blocked into the chair. He held her fists hostage, and she leaned forward, as though trying to rise.
Bile burned in her throat. “I think I just freaked out.”
“Me, too. But your pulse is slowing and your respiration is easing. How’s your head?” Despite the calm words, his tone remained wary.
“I’m sorry.” Tears sheened across her vision and he wavered. Holy crap, she’d actually tried to hit him. She didn’t remember moving forward or shoving her leg out. She didn’t even remember clenching her fists. But his scar-free cheek boasted a red mark.
She had hit him.
She hadn’t tried anything. She’d actually struck him. “I’m sorry.”
“No problem. I’m going to let you go, and you’re going to keep your ass in that chair. Got it?”
She nodded, mute. Horrifyingly, one of the tears leaked out. He let her go and she swiped at it. Her anger fled and she felt drained as exhaustion dragged her down.
She’d hit Logan.
“I’m really sorry.”
He didn’t respond, but scooped her out of the chair, blanket and all. Not the quick, transfer, bed-to-wheelchair hold he’d performed earlier. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her. The pressure of his embrace provided such a profound relief, she burst into tears. They poured out of her, a throat-burning, sinus-stuffing sob.
She didn’t want him to see her that way. She didn’t want to do it. But she couldn’t dam the tide once it began rolling out of her. She clung to him, turning her face into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. He ran his hand up and down her spine. He let her cry, supporting her weight like it was nothing. Her sobs finally tapered down to sniffling hiccups.
“When I woke up in the hospital, I didn’t know what day it was.” Logan confessed in a steady, even voice. “I didn’t know where the hell I was. It came back to me in pieces, though. Jagged little shards of memory, each one cutting a slice in my soul. I screamed a lot. Because while I didn’t know what the hell was happening or where I was, I did know I was in pain. Pain I don’t know the words to describe.”
His throat convulsed. He sucked in a deep breath, but he didn’t put her down. She curled her fingers, even the stubborn ones, into his shirt.
“They gave me morphine, but that didn’t make the pain stop—it just made me stop screaming. Broken bones are better than burns. The bones ache, but the burns never stop hurting. Every time I woke up, pain was the first thing I felt. Oblivion couldn’t come fast or often enough. Surgery sucked, because every time they added another pin to my body, it was like I started burning all over again. But the worst part—” His voice choked. “The worst part was the loss of control. I pissed myself. I couldn’t get myself out of the bed. I couldn’t change position. I didn’t have a damn thing to say about what happened to my body. I was a prisoner of war and my body was the camp. I get it, Jazz. I get wanting out and wanting to fight.”