Southern Heart by Madison, Natasha (best fiction novels .txt) 📕

pillows as he looks up at the ceiling. "Do you need anything else?" I ask him and he turns his face to look at me. The fear is all over it.

"What the hell were you thinking?” he says, and I just look at him confused.

"I’m sorry?" I say. Obviously, I’ve misheard him. Surely, he’s not coming at me with this attitude.

"Running in here like a bat out of hell." His eyes fly to mine. "Without thinking twice about it. Coming in here half naked." His words cut me to the core.

I stand straight now, looking at him as he stares at me with his eyes dead. There is nothing in them anymore. It’s like a switch went out in them. "I was sleeping after being awoken and scared shitless,” I tell him, trying to keep my calm instead of really showing him what a bat out of hell looks like. A draft of cold air runs through me, and I can feel the goose bumps all over my bare arms and legs. "When you decided you were too macho to ask for help when you tried to grab a glass of water." His eyes never leave mine. "So excuse me for not grabbing my robe on my way here." I advance on him one more step. "The only thing that went through my head was getting to you in case…"

"In case what?" he says, his voice soft. "In case my father came and finished the job?" He laughs.

I shake my head. "I’m not going to be the one you take your shit out on." My calm leaving me like the air leaves a balloon. "I’ve bent over fucking backward for you. I’ve done shit that I was not comfortable with, and I did them for you." I point at him. "So spin that while you're on your high horse," I say, turning and walking out of the room. Not even caring anymore. I walk to my room and slam the door behind me just to show him. "Asshole."

I walk to my bathroom, kicking off my shoe and seeing the towel soaked in blood. "Shit," I hiss out, walking over to grab the first aid kit from the drawer. The anger in me is making me ignore the pain shooting through me.

My mind replays the scene as I grab the glue. Once I glue the cut back together, I place a bandage on it. Washing off my hands, I walk out of the bathroom, not putting all my pressure on my foot.

I walk toward the bed and then turn suddenly, going to check on him. I try not to make any noise. The hallway is dark, and when I get closer to his bedroom, I see the light is off also. I stand here at the doorway, looking in at him.

His head turns, looking in my direction. "I’m sorry, Chelsea," he says softly and doesn’t wait for me to say anything. Instead, he turns his head toward the window. "Good night."

"Good night," I say, turning and walking back to my room. I slip into bed, turning on my side and I watch the darkness become light before my eyes slip closed.

When I wake up the next morning, my bedroom door is closed, and I panic that I missed something. I grab my robe and walk out of the room, but the stinging of my foot makes me stop as Ethan walks out of Mayson’s room.

"Is there a reason your gun is in his room?" He puts his arms over his chest. "Actually," he says, "maybe you should tell me why you didn’t call me before you went running into his room."

I glare at him. "Which question do you want answered first?" I fold my hands over my chest, and now he glares back at me.

He doesn't say anything as he looks at me , "What happened to your foot?"

"That’s three questions," I tell him, "and I need coffee." I ignore him and hobble over to the coffee machine. I look over and see that it’s already noon. "What time did you get here?"

"Eight," he says. "You were passed out snoring, so I closed your door."

"I didn’t hear you." I grab the cup of coffee and bring it to my lips.

"So let’s hear it," he says, ignoring what I just said.

"What is there to say? I heard crashing in the middle of the night, and when I ran to make sure he was okay, I sliced my foot." I hobble over to one of the stools.

"From what Mayson said…" he says, and I pfft out.

"From what Mayson said what?" I ask him. "If you don’t like it, take him and leave." He just looks at me. "If I’m doing something you don't approve of, you are more than welcome to take him and bring him to your house." I ignore the pounding in my chest and the burning in my stomach, thinking of him being anywhere else without me being able to make sure he is okay. "But if you are going to leave him here, you are going to do it with my rules."

"And what are those?" He leans back on the counter, crossing his feet at his ankles.

"One, what I do and when I do it, shouldn’t be questioned,” I say. "I am not going to tiptoe around. This is my house. I did what needed to be done at the moment."

"You could have been hurt," he points out.

"And he could have been dead," I counter at him. "But I’m not, and neither is he."

"But you’re hurt," he says, and I roll my eyes.

"It’s a cut," I tell him, not even going to mention I had to glue the cut back together.

"You should have called," he tells me.

"What would you have done?" I ask and don’t give him a chance to say anything else. "Raced over here for nothing. If there was any danger, they would have seen it." I mention the cameras. "Now, if you’ll excuse me," I say,