“Wyatt.”
A growl of need rattles inside his throat as he pulls me into his arms. He hugs me for a long stretch, standing there breathing me in like a man starved for air, until a wry voice interrupts the moment.
“Hastings, you’re not the only one who wants to hug her, you know.” Harper sounds impatient.
Wyatt drops his arms, but doesn’t release me fully. He keeps a hand on my waist as he steps aside so Harper can throw her arms around me. Her hug is full of warmth and strength.
“You good?” she asks simply.
I nod.
“Good.” She dashes tears from her eyes and looks around for her boyfriend. He’s still speaking to the police. Grayson’s joined them, which means they’re probably talking about Helena. He tries to catch my eyes, but I avoid his seeking gaze.
“I should probably talk to the police.”
A grumble of protest sounds from Wyatt. “No. You need to get checked out by the paramedics first. Another ambulance is on the way.”
I wrinkle my nose and turn to face him, a comment about his overbearing protective streak poised on my tongue, but he’s not paying attention. He’s too busy running his hands over me, checking for damage. I yelp when he reaches my wrist. He pulls it up to inspect it and I hear him suck in a breath.
“Baby.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re hurt.” His hands delicately feel the bones in my wrist. “I don’t think it’s broken, but you still need to see a doctor.”
“It’s probably just a sprain. Doesn’t even hurt that much,” I lie. “I’m okay.”
“You’renotokay.”
He turns over my hands, sees the deep gashes scored into the skin, and swears under his breath. Before I can say anything else, he’s scooped me up into his arms and carried me inside.
“Wyatt!” I protest. “I can walk!”
He ignores me, stepping over the threshold. The sight that greets us makes him stop short. I feel the tension inside him building like a storm as his eyes sweep from the wreckage of my lamp to the puddle of Helena’s blood, seeping across the hardwood.
“Wyatt,breathe. And put me down, please. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t listen. He strides through the house until we reach the sitting room, untouched by signs of struggle, and sets me down on the couch carefully. His hands stroke over my hair.
“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs. His eyes cut to Harper. “Stay with her.”
Harper doesn’t object. She settles on the cushion beside mine and sighs.
“Quite the drama queen, aren’t we? You know, if you felt you weren’t getting enough attention between the crazed paparazzi and accidental pregnancy and movie premiere and messy romantic entanglements with multiple men, you could’ve just gotten a bad haircut or rashly decided to get a tattoo you’d later regret. You didn’t have to go and get yourself practically shish-kebabed by a crazy girl with excellent bone structure and questionable sanity.”
I snort. “Noted. Next time, I’ll just get a really ugly pixie cut and call it a day.”
Wyatt reappears, the small first aid kit from my bathroom cabinet in his grip. He crouches between my knees, grabs my hand, and starts to pull tiny pieces of glass from the cuts with a pair of tweezers.
“Ow!” I wince and try to tug my hand away. “That hurts!”
He holds my hand still, concentrating.
“Wyatt, you really don’t have to—”
“Katharine.” His eyes flash up to mine and I see the fresh horror still swimming in them. “Let me do this. Let me dosomethingso I don’t feel so goddamned useless. Please.”
I nod and my voice goes soft. “Okay, love.”