The Bodyguard

Ch 2: For the record, I hate you all!

My hipbone throbs as the pain caused by impact registers, the pressure of Reaper's huge body on top of me certainly not helping. His familiarity and strength are a combination I can't bring myself to process in this moment. His presence invades my senses, penetrating my every thought. His muscles ripple as he presses into my softness, the silk of my dress making it impossible for his chest not to glide across mine as he moves.

"Are you hurt?"

Not in the way he thinks.

"No. Are you?"

The question slips out, betraying my plan to act impartial.

"No."

I gaze into his tortured eyes for a moment, allowing myself a few stolen seconds to just be. Reaper—it seems—gifts himself the same luxury, leaving us both silently staring, nothing between us.

"Eva!"

My brother—Michael—is concerned as he runs into the hallway, flanked by an army of mafia soldiers. His tone is frantic and desperate, borderline hysterical. He's not normally so emotional, but I suppose thinking the worst has the potential to do that to a man.

"Over here!" yells Reaper, pushing up on his elbows and moving away from me.

I refuse to acknowledge that his absence feels like blow to the stomach.

"Fuck—are you okay?" asks Michael, dropping to his knees in front of me.

"Looks like it," I reply, smiling.

He motions for his men to secure the surrounding area, hands going to my cheeks moments later.

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I insist, briefly looking across to the man who—ironically—is the reason why my heat is still beating, despite being the one who broke it almost twelve months ago.

"What happened?" asks Michael, eyes regarding me.

His are a different blue to mine. A tropical paradise to to my clear skies. As kids, I remember being insanely jealous of them. Mine are innocent and kind, whereas his have the potential to both charm and kill. Micheal may be a good man, but I don't doubt his ability to strike. In fact, I've seen it first hand. You don't become mafia boss nothing.

"Sniper," interrupts Reaper, awkwardly working out a tense muscle in his neck. "Just the one, I think."

"Are you hurt?" questions Michael, gesturing towards Reaper's hand clamped round his neck.

"Nah—just tense."

His gaze momentarily locks with mine, eyes full of unspoken thoughts.

"We'll find who did this," promises Michael, focusing on me again. "Don't worry."

"I'm not worried," I say, clambering to my feet. "I've gotten really good at ducking over the years."

My attempt at lightening the mood falls flat.

"I'm joking..."

"It's not funny," scorns Michael, all but declaring the moment too soon for teasing.

Thankfully, Imogen and Fiona choose now to push through the small crowd gathered by the doorway.

"Eva?"

"I'm okay," I insist, embracing my friends. "Just some arsehole thinking he can get rid of me."

Is my need to downplay the situation a coping mechanism? Absolutely. But the alternative is giving way to my fear, and I simply can't let that happen.

"Someone shot at you?" asks Fiona, eyebrows raised.