Destiny Calls by Samantha Wayland (100 best novels of all time TXT) 📗

to the foot of the bed, his back to the detectives, blocking their view. She could tell he was barely holding it together. “I"ll question him myself tomorrow,” he promised. He looked like he was thinking about charging down to the station right then and there.

Brandon smiled in spite of Patrick"s ferocious expression. “I"m sure he"ll be thrilled to see you,” he said, his voice bland.

She smothered her laugh, mostly because Carter could still see her. Patrick looked momentarily shocked. When his face started to cloud once more, Brandon winked at him. Even as Patrick straightened with surprise, he couldn"t keep his lips from twitching.

Destiny smiled at Brandon, running her hand lightly over the bandages on his forehead before letting her fingers trace through his hair. Brandon smiled back.

Clever man. It wasn"t easy pulling Patrick out of a mood.

But then again, who knew the stupid lug better than the two of them?

No one.

The ride home was agony.

Brandon lay across Destiny"s back seat and stared at the ceiling of the car, using every ounce of his focus and strength not to groan out loud as each bump and curve in the road shot pain along his ribs, back, shoulder and thigh.

He was hurting. Bad. But goddamn if he was going to complain about it and send Patrick off the deep end. Or make Destiny cry. Again.

He wasn"t being selfless—it was purely an act of self-preservation. He knew if either of them lost it, he would too.

By the time Destiny pulled into Ethel"s old cobblestone and gravel driveway, he was barely managing to keep the shock at bay. He"d always assumed going into shock was something that happened to people without them being aware of it. Only, he knew 60

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exactly what the uncontrollable shaking in his hands meant, could feel his eyes were wide and unblinking in his face and that his breathing was becoming increasingly irregular. He promised himself that if he could get into the house and settled into whatever guest bed he was assigned, he would be able to fall apart. He just had to hold on. He"d made it through the ambulance ride, the doctors patching him up and giving his statement. He could make it five more minutes.

When Patrick opened the door to the back seat, Brandon knew he"d lost the battle.

The last five minutes of his control had come and gone. One look at Patrick"s face told him that Patrick knew it too.

“You okay to get in the house on your own, Bran?” He didn"t know if he"d ever heard Patrick use that gentle tone of voice in his life.

Ever. God, he must look pathetic. And what was Patrick going to do if he said no?

Carry him? Sweet Jesus. Not in this lifetime or the next.

Nodding, he muttered, “Yeah, I got it,” before trying to swing his legs off the seat and sit up. He"d almost succeeded, the pain forcing his eyes closed and the air from his lungs, when Patrick"s warm hand wrapped around the back of his neck, steadying him, easing him vertical.

Shit, he was a mess. The pinprick of tears burned his eyes and he clamped down on them, hard.

With Patrick"s help, he managed to get out of the car. Once he was standing, he put all his focus on the door to the house, avoiding looking at Destiny"s face when he took her hand, knowing that if he saw even one tear, he"d start blubbering like a stupid baby.

Walking hurt but he was grateful for it—the pain helping him stay aware and upright as he moved one foot in front of the other. Patrick jogged ahead to open the door and snag Farley"s collar so the big, affectionate dog wouldn"t jump all over Brandon.

Brandon followed blindly, not stopping or changing pace as he traced Patrick"s steps through the kitchen and up the wide, curved staircase. Patrick disappeared into his own bedroom and Brandon stopped and waited in the hall.

“What room do you want me in?” There were six bedrooms in the big, old Victorian and he didn"t give a crap which one he was in as long as he could get horizontal. Fast.

“This one,” Patrick called though the open door.

Destiny moved forward, towing him in her wake. He crossed the threshold and stumbled the last few steps to the side of the bed. He felt awful that Patrick was giving up his room. Any of the other bedrooms would have been fine. Patrick was probably putting him in here, though, because of the en suite bathroom he"d had installed a few years ago.

Why did Patrick have to be so damn considerate? His eyes started burning again and he swallowed hard.

He let Destiny gently remove his blood-stained t-shirt, wrapping a hand around the footboard of the massive sleigh bed to steady himself while toeing off his sneakers. Her warm fingers slid into the waistband of his jeans, working the button and lowering the 61

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zipper. He closed his eyes, his head hanging down. It wasn"t sexual. It was defeat. He needed her help. Was both grateful to have it and ashamed he needed it. The nurses had gotten him dressed and now he couldn"t undo their work without hurting so badly it took his breath away. Even with her help, it was excruciating. And lowering.

Standing in his underwear in Patrick"s bedroom, he felt safer than he had in hours.

It was then the shaking started in earnest. His skin felt waxy where it stretched over his bones and he could feel the blood draining from his head, leaving him lightheaded and nauseous.

“Patrick, hurry,” Destiny called.

He couldn"t bring himself to open his eyes and see the pity in hers.

“Shit,” Patrick muttered as he strode back into the room. “Come on, Bran. Let"s get you in bed. You"ll be warmer there.”

He didn"t doubt that Patrick understood that cold wasn"t causing his shakes. When Patrick"s hand came to rest on his back, urging him forward, he finally opened his eyes.

He was surprised to see