It took everything in Lia not to step forward to place a supportive arm around his waist. For one thing, she was pretty sure the gesture would not be appreciated, and for another, touching him didn’t seem like a very wise course of action.
She waited for him to slowly progress up the first four stairs before setting foot on the first step.
“Don’t fucking hover,” he growled over his shoulder, more aware of her movements than she’d expected him to be.
“I’m not hovering,” she protested. “Look, I’m way down here.”
“What are you going to do? Catch me if I fall?” he asked, and she thought she could hear a touch of something close to amusement in his curt voice.
“I don’t know. Something.” He shook his head and refocused his energy and attention on getting upstairs. For every four stairs he took, she advanced another step. It was sixteen steps to the top, and she heaved a relieved breath when he finally reached the landing. She hastened to follow him, and when she got up to the loft, he was slipping the sling over his head. He tossed it—clear frustration in the gesture—on the bed and gingerly lowered his arm. It was encased in white plaster from his hand to just above his elbow. There were signatures scrawled all over the cast, and she found herself staring at those. Somehow she hadn’t expected Brand to be the type of man to have his friends sign his cast.
She felt his eyes on her and reluctantly lifted her gaze to meet his. He looked exhausted and more than a little grim.
“They did these while I was out cold,” he explained unexpectedly, lifting his arm with an almost embarrassed shrug.
“Who?”
“My colleagues, friends, and Lally.” He cleared his throat self-consciously and shrugged again when he saw her confusion. “Laura Prentiss.”
He had a pet name for her? And it was a lot more personal than just princess. She didn’t have any right to feel envious about that. But now Lia couldn’t help wondering if he actually remembered her name. Since he hadn’t used it once since seeing her.
“I see,” she said softly. Her eyes fell to the suitcases again. “Who brought these up here?”
“Driving service chauffeur,” he explained. He cleared his throat again and awkwardly tugged at his T-shirt with his unencumbered hand.
“Let me help,” she offered impulsively, and he hesitated for just a moment before dropping his arms and lifting his jaw. He looked stubborn and proud, and she knew how much it cost him to let her help.
She licked her lips nervously, ignoring the familiar flare of interest in his eyes at the gesture, and tugged at the hem of his shirt, holding her breath as she lifted the fabric over his sculpted torso. He was definitely much thinner than she remembered, but the muscle definition was still there. Once the pallor from his enforced confinement faded and he started eating properly again, he’d have no trouble getting back that lethal, lean, well-honed grace of before. Still, every fading bruise and bandage she revealed saddened her a little bit. He looked like he’d been through the wringer, and—if the involuntary deep, groaning sigh that emerged when she gently lifted his injured arm was any indication—he felt like it, too.
She was making her own involuntary sounds, soft, crooning, apologetic little noises as she eased the shirt over his cast. The sleeve had been removed, but despite the larger hole it was still a mission to get it off without jarring his arm. She released her breath gustily when she finally got it all the way off, but the next breath snagged in her throat as she took in the full impact of the damage on his chest, torso, and back.
Not all the knife wounds were still bandaged; the shallower gashes—on his left pec, just above his belly button, and over his left clavicle—had been stitched up and left to heal. The stitches had been removed already, but the scars still had the angry, swollen appearance of fresh wounds. Lia moaned and gently traced the tip of her index finger over the long, jagged cut on his pec, and his muscle jumped beneath her tentative touch.
“Don’t.” His gravelly voice breathed directly into her ear and startled her into jumping back.
“I’m sorry.” That was way out of line. She didn’t know what she was thinking. “I should go.”
“Not going to help me with my jeans?” he asked, his face completely serious. “The buttons are tricky.”
She hesitated, and her eyes involuntarily dropped to the fly of his jeans. To her horror, the generous bulge shifted beneath her gaze, quickly taking impressive shape down the length of his left thigh. She gulped and her eyes leapt back to his. Despite his obvious exhaustion, he was grinning broadly, a lascivious twinkle in his eyes.