Shattered Dynasty by Ava Harrison
37
Payton
Trent Aldridge has a heart.
It is big and vibrant, and hidden behind ironclad walls he erected himself. I’m not sure how it took me so long to realize it, but now that I have, I can’t unsee it.
Ivy and Trent bicker over the next steps of my recovery near the door to my private hospital room.
I wave a little. “Right here, guys.”
They ignore me.
Meanwhile, Cyrus has his phone out, growling orders into the device in a language I can’t identify, let alone understand. I only know they’re orders because it’s Cyrus. I don’t even have to have known him long to know what that means.
I agreed to continue staying with Trent, what in the hell did I say yes to?
Now that Trent is no longer ignoring his sister (something I gathered over the past few days through contextual clues), she’s all up in his grill. I think he likes it. I also think it’s a recipe for disaster. The kind that tastes like chocolate and gooey marshmallows but is all sorts of messy.
“She needs a wheelchair,” Trent insists, already pulling up his phone, presumably to order one.
“The doctor didn’t mention that at all.” Ivy snatches his phone from his hands. “Actually, he did mention her legs. To say they’ll be fine. They just need to be elevated.”
“If they need to be elevated, she needs a wheelchair.”
“A wheelchair is flat.”
“Hello?” I cut in.
Still nothing.
If I’m being honest, I want the wheelchair. I tried walking with the crutches the hospital offered and failed miserably. But I understand what Ivy’s been trying to do since she showed up—cement into Trent that I am not fragile. I will not break because of one accident.
I have no illusions that it’s a favor to me, and every impression it’s for Trent. Ivy doesn’t want her brother to feel guilty over my condition, even if it means she has to point out how intact I am. And I agree with her. Dealing with Trent’s guilt is uncomfortable. I never know how it’ll manifest.
I end up in a hospital wheelchair, being pushed by a gentle-handed Ivy. We descend a private elevator and are led out by the staff to a small, empty parking garage. Cyrus pulls his car beside Trent’s. Ivy waves goodbye, and then they’re gone, leaving me alone with Trent.
He helps me into the car even though I don’t need it. I think it’s guilt, but he’s going overboard. I don’t want this to be awkward. Especially if I expect to hide out at his place. We need to find some way to let the past stay in the past and move on.
The problem is, this peace is so tentative, so fresh that I fear broaching the subject is like poking a bear.
Trent sits beside me in the back seat as his driver steers us into the city. My leg is elevated like the doctor ordered. I guess it’s a good thing Trent owns a Maybach. I can’t imagine that many cars would allow me to do this.
We still haven’t pierced the silence since his sister left.
I won’t be the first to do it.
Trent’s profile is the only thing visible to me as he stares out of the window, watching the scenery change from rural to concrete.
I wonder if he regrets his decision to bring me back with him.
Yeah, he feels guilty for what happened to me, but he could have pawned me off on my sister. Despite our differences, I’m thankful he asked me to stay with him.
Since all my stuff is already in Trent’s loft and his is the most secure place I’ve been to, this plan makes the most sense.
However, the closer we get, the more I’m not sure.
The drive is eerily quiet.
No music plays. Neither of us speaks.
I just want to get home already.
Home.
What a strange word.
Is his place my home?
No. Not really.
But I have lived there for over a month and feel safer in the loft, under Trent’s wings, than I ever felt in any house or apartment with Erin.
Maybe it’s not my home, but it sure does feel good to be going back.
After the accident, I just want normalcy.
That would never have happened with Erin and Brad. The man gives me major creep vibes.
Something’s off about him. Beyond the drugs, the booze, and the penchant for dealing.
At first, it was the way he looked at me.
It wasn’t sexual necessarily.
Just off.
I shake my head and pull my focus back to the outside landscape. We approach the bridge and cross over it.
It won’t be long now.
My bed beckons me, and I stifle a yawn at the thought.
That makes Trent shuffle in his seat.
I turn to see what he’s doing.
He is staring at me.
Blue eyes that have no bottom.
“Tired?” His voice is low as if to keep the conversation strictly between the two of us.
“Yeah. It feels like I got run over by a car,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
It has the opposite effect, though, and instead, little lines form between Trent’s brows.
“I’m so sorry about that.”
It’s not the first time he’s apologized, and it probably won’t be the last. I thought I’d enjoy the moment, but I don’t. It lost its novelty after the first time, and now, I just want things back to how they were, minus the animosity.
“It’s really not your fault,” I point out.
“But it could be,” he admits on a sigh.
This is the second time he’s made a cryptic comment like that.
“What does that mean?”
His eyes dart to the front of the car. “Not now. But I’ll explain back at the loft.”
I give him a little nod to show him I understand. Whatever he has to say or confess shouldn’t be done in front of his driver.
Makes sense.
I know that Trent rubs elbows with some powerful men.
This could be about that.
Maybe he pissed someone off.
I shiver at the thought.
“Cold?”
“No.”
He moves in his seat, and his body slides closer. Our legs touch. His hand grazes mine.
The shifting makes it more pronounced, and I wonder what he is doing, but then he pulls his coat off. He’s making sure I’m warm.
And at that gesture, I thaw.
Soon, the car slows down. I peek out the window and notice we’re pulling up to the loft building. When the driver throws the car in park, Trent turns to me and signals with his hand for me to stay. Then he is up and out of the car, walking around to my side.
He opens the door and reaches his hand in to grab me. I shake my head, but he just frowns.
“No way am I letting you try to walk.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Carry you, of course.”
“You are not carrying me.” I cross my arms over my chest.
Petulant child in aisle one.
He leans into the car doorway and almost whispers, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
My face starts to warm at the implication. The last time I got hurt, he carried me. I remember his arms, the way he held me tight, and the smell of his cologne. It feels like it was just yesterday.
Yeah, no, I can’t let him carry me.
It’s hard enough being attracted to a man you hate.
Oh, shut up, Payton. You don’t hate him.
Tolerate. You tolerate him.
Even I am getting annoyed with my lies.
It’s more that he makes you feel things you don’t want to think about. Which means you can’t be held in his arms.
Because that will confuse me even more.
However, his narrow eyes tell me there is no getting out of this, so I pivot my body to the right, extend my leg out, and move to stand. Before I can, he’s reaching in and pulling me carefully into his arms.
“Can’t you just get me crutches or a wheelchair?”
“No.”
“Seriously?”
This is unbelievable.
“Yes.”
“Why do you have to be so difficult? I am perfectly capable of handling myself.”
“Yet you’re not. You said you would stay with me. You said you would heal in my place. You sprained a rib, sprained your foot, and don’t get me started with your concussion. Can you just not argue with me?”
“Fine,” I say on a huff.
He chuckles, and this time it’s a happy laugh. A sound I’m not used to hearing come from his lips. I really like it. It’s contagious. I stop the matching smile from spreading across my lips.
In his arms, he pulls me tight, but he’s careful not to hurt me. I’m having a hard time reconciling the two versions of Trent.
The one who treated me like a servant, forced me to write papers, and had me volunteer.
That Trent was nasty, cruel, belittling. Yet the one I see now . . . This is the same man who brushed an old lady’s hair and helped Henry find his son. He tied shoes, cleaned, and stayed with me in the hospital every day . . .
It’s hard to figure out who the real Trent is.
I don’t think he knows either. I think he’s lived in a dark world for too long, and he doesn’t remember what it’s like to grow in the sunlight anymore.
I want to show him the light. I want to remind him what he has to be grateful for.
My mind says that would be dangerous.
But my heart? It’s beating like a drummer, begging to see him shine.
If I let those walls down, if I stop protecting myself and it turns out I’m wrong . . .
If the gamble isn’t worth it, if Trent turns out not to be the man I think he is beneath all the practiced hatred?
He can use that against me.
All the things in my past before his father stepped into my life, he can use against me.
Trent’s driver must’ve called ahead to let the staff know we were arriving because as Trent walks up the sidewalk to the door, it swings open, and everyone in the house greets us.
Each one of them approaches us, trying to make sure I’m okay, but Trent doesn’t want to stop. Instead, he walks down the hall.
To his room.
“What are we doing in your room?” I ask when he swings the door open with me still in his arms.
“You’ll be staying in here for the time being.”
I take in the grandiose space for the first time. It’s oversized, dark, and neat. Just like I expected. It also only has one bed.
“And where will you be staying . . . ?” I trail off.
He steps into the room with me and shuts the door behind him with his foot. “I took the liberty of moving your stuff in here and placing my stuff in your room, temporarily.”
“Why would you do that?”
I think I need him to spell it out for me because I’m not computing. Is this really the same man who makes me mix custom cleaning solutions for him?
He swallows, adjusting me in his grip. “Because you need more space.”
“I don’t need this much space.”
He walks toward the bed. “If you decide you want to use a wheelchair while you heal, your room is not adequately shaped for it. Also, your shower doesn’t have room for a chair.”
“You are being ridiculous. I don’t need a chair, and I am not staying in your room.”
He looks like he wants to argue. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, but with obvious reluctance, he nods. He retraces his steps and carries me to the room I’ve been living in.
I breathe in the familiar space, but all I catch is Trent’s scent. It’s overwhelming how much he consumes every space he enters. He places me on the bed, taking special care to avoid putting pressure on my injuries. Then he turns and storms out of the room before I even have time to process that I pissed him off.
What in the world did I do?
I don’t see what the big deal is about me not sleeping in his bed, but I can’t deal with a thirty-something-year-old man having a tantrum. He may as well lie on the floor, kicking his feet. It’s obvious what this is. A tantrum.
At least he closed the door behind him because I need a minute by myself.
My ribs ache. My leg aches. Hell, my wrist even aches.
But I don’t like to ask for help.
So I lie on my bed, try to get comfortable, and close my eyes.
I don’t knowwhat time it is when I finally flutter them back open, but I’m met with darkness despite the curtains pulled wide open. My cell phone sits on the other side of the bed. I scoot over to look at it, moving extra slowly thanks to the haggard state of my body.
It’s three in the morning.
Wow. I fell asleep for twelve hours.
I still don’t feel rested.
At the hospital, the nurses woke me up so often for tests and drugs and who-knows-what. Then they told me they wouldn’t discharge me until I proved I felt well-rested, which was downright impossible with how dead set they were on keeping me awake.
There’s dirt and grime on me. I can’t see it, but I can feel it. I look around the room and wonder what I should do. The bathroom is an en suite, but it feels particularly far right now. I eyeball the distance between the bed and the entrance to it.
Fuck me.
I’m wide-awake. There is no way I’m falling back asleep. It feels like spiders are crawling all over me. I can’t ignore it. Luckily, I don’t have a hard cast, so I shouldn’t need help taking a shower.
But getting there?
Trent is right. I do need a chair. I also don’t want to admit he’s right, nor wake him up.
I place my good foot on the floor. With all my strength, I hobble to the bathroom, keeping pressure off the bad foot. When I reach the toilet, I sit down on the closed lid and unstrap the boot I’m wearing. I place it to the side, remove the arm brace, and strip off my clothes.
I’m slightly winded from hobbling, but it wasn’t impossible. Definitely doable. And something I can repeat again. But my ribs ache, and I wonder if I’m straining myself by doing too much.
But it’s a shower.
I can’t exactly ask for help.
I open the shower’s glass door, grasp the handle on the wall to steady myself, and turn the water on, stepping under it.
There’s nothing like getting washed clean after days without. It beats taking off your bra after a long day. A midnight taco run. Acing a test. I groan out in bliss, ridding myself of the past few days.
The water is a bit warm for my normal liking. Actually, it’s scalding hot and probably burning my insides alive. But it wipes away the grime and all the disgustingness of what happened.
I try to lather my hair up with my bad hand once while my good hand stays occupied holding the shower handle. I fail, of course, suds running into my eyes. They burn. I blink fast, shoving the water over my face.
Dammit. This is more difficult than I wanted it to be.
I grasp the outside of the shower door, trying to find a washcloth, but I lose my footing. Luckily, there’s a shower bench. I grunt as soon as my butt makes contact with the hard marble.
I steady myself on it before I fall, but it’s inclined downward and not large enough for me to sit on for long.
Who built this thing so it would only fit a foot and not a butt?
I would be lying if I said that showering while standing didn’t hurt like a sonofabitch. My ribs begin to burn from the pain. At least I didn’t fall again.
I need to get out of here as soon as possible.
This isn’t a smart idea.
As I wash the soap out of my eyes, the door to the bathroom swings open.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Trent hollers.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I respond, trying desperately to cover my exposed body with my bad hand while trying not to let go of the handle with my good one.
“What are you doing taking a shower?”
I shrug. Or try to. My hands are otherwise occupied. “It’s my bathroom, and I felt gross.”
He stalks toward me. “You can’t take a shower by yourself.”
“And what am I supposed to do when I wake up like yucky?”
“Let me set you up in my bathroom.”
He’s fuming, his shoulders rising and falling with the ragged intake of oxygen. I turn off the water, planning my escape. The air is cold. It elicits a shiver. I’m still naked in front of him, and it must hit him because his eyes go wide.
Then his gaze dips down.
Not that it’s something he hasn’t seen before, but goose bumps rise along my arm.
“Stop right there, buddy,” I scold. “Hand me a towel.”
He crosses his arms. “I’ll hand you a towel if you agree to let me carry you back to my room.”
I tip my chin up. “I’m perfectly capable of being by myself."
“Says the girl who didn’t listen to me. Didn’t ask for help, and very possibly could have face-planted in the shower and sprained or worse, fractured her other wrist.”
“None of that happened.” I wave my good wrist, internally groaning when my breasts sway with the motion.
His eyes darken, but he fixes his attention on my face. I don’t think I would have the same restraint.
“But it could have,” he says, stalking forward again. “So be a good girl, take the towel, wrap your body, and let me take you to my room. Tomorrow, I will make sure everything is set up. That way, you don’t have to move unless you have support.”
I let out a giant groan.
“Fine.” I hold out my good hand. “Just hand me the damn towel. I’m cold, and I’ll do whatever you want just to shut you up.”
He wears his smile like a trophy. He won, and now he’s basking in his winnings.
He hands me the fluffy towel that was out of reach. I quickly wrap it around my wet body as best I can. I don’t miss the way he trails his gaze over my skin, and if I were in my right mind, I would probably relish it and taunt him.
But after all this movement, I’ve exerted too much energy, and I’m exhausted. I have no fight left in me.
So, I don’t do anything.
There’s no witty rebuttal.
I allow myself to be picked up, yet again. I close my eyes once I’m in his arms. His cologne lingers in my nostrils. It makes me feel safe. It is a complete contradiction to how I felt earlier.
We walk back into the room, and he places me on his bed.
“I’ll be right back.”
I adjust the towel around my chest. “Where are you going?”
“To get you something to wear to sleep.”
He walks into the closet, then a moment later, he returns holding a black T-shirt.
I lift a brow. “That’s not mine.”
“You’re right. It’s not. Great detective skills, Sherlock.” He clutches it tight in his grip, eyes drifting to my collarbone. “You need something to wear. It’s late at night, and I don’t want to rummage through your stuff.”
“That kind of makes sense,” I mutter under my breath.
Trent crosses the space and stands in front of me. His hand reaches out with the shirt at the same time I do. Our fingers touch. A heady sensation washes over me, but I push it down.
I can’t think of him this way.
I can’t read into the way he looks at me.
I can’t remember our kiss. Or the way he held my hand throughout my time in the hospital.
This is stupid, Payton. Get your act together.
“Everything okay?” Trent interrupts my inner rambling.
“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”
“Maybe because you were shaking your head.”
“Oh.” I fumble for an excuse. “I must be more tired than I realized . . .”
“Or, knowing you, you were fighting with me in your head.” He starts to laugh, and I realize I probably made a face that gave me away. “You were. What were we fighting about?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I take the T-shirt from his hands and slip it on over my head. As soon as it covers the towel that is wrapped around my body, I shimmy it off.
And that’s when I realize I’m missing one thing . . .
“Um . . .”
He gives me a go on look. “Yes?”
“I, um, need underwear.”
He looks down at my exposed legs, and a slight smirk spreads. “I don’t have any women’s underwear in here. Guess you will have to go without.”
“This is total bullshit.” I groan, tilting my head up to the ceiling as if it holds all the answers. “I knew it was too good to be true.”
“What?”
“Your good behavior.” I drop my gaze back to him. “You’re back to being a jackass.”
“I hardly call refusing to rummage through your underwear a jackass behavior, but tomato, tomahto. You say jackass; I say princely.”
“It’s not that. It’s that damn smirk on your face.”
His smile grows bolder at my claim.
“See?” I nod toward it. “There’s the brat.”
“Again, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He shrugs. “Go to bed, Payton.”
“Give me a pair of boxers, Trent.”
He reaches into another drawer, tosses me a pair, and turns his back to pull down the covers on the bed.
I huff and struggle into the boxers. When he’s done with the bed, I expect to hear his footsteps announce his exit. Instead, I’m shocked to still hear him walking around in the room. I refuse to ask him what he’s doing because, obviously, I’m very mature at this point in our arguing.
Climbing into the soft bedsheets, I grit my teeth and wait . . . and wait.
And wait some more.
Finally, it’s too much to bear.
“Why are you still here?” I ask him.
He takes a seat in the chaise lounge opposite the bed, just staring at me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask again.
He lifts the throw blanket he tossed on top of himself. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Jeez, stop with the damn question-for-a-question and just tell me.”
He adjusts in the chaise. “I’m sleeping here.”
The hell he is.
I try to pop my body up, but it hurts too much.
I just shake my head and tell him, “No, you’re not staying.”
“I am staying.”
He uses a growly tone that sounds so pompous. So arrogant, yet so damn sexy.
Ugh, I want to hit myself for these thoughts.
I shake my head. “You can’t sleep here.”
“Someone has to watch you.”
“You weren’t watching me before, and I was perfectly fine.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He tsks. “I was watching you before I went to go get water. In the time it took me to go downstairs, get water, drink it, and come back up, you managed to get yourself stuck in the shower.”
My mouth opens and shuts.
“You were in the room the whole time?”
“Yep.” He smiles. “FYI, you talk in your sleep.”
“I do not.”
“Okay, sure, princess.”
Maybe I do, and by the way he’s grinning, it can’t be a good thing.
There is no way I’m going to get him out of this room. I let out a deep, audible, dramatic sigh.
“It’s really not that bad, Payton.”
“Which part?” I lift a brow. “The part where you spy on me when I sleep? Or the part where I can’t actually do anything to get you outta here?”
“The latter.” He kicks one foot on top of the other, getting way too relaxed for his own good. “Think of it this way. For the night, you have a personal butler. If you want a drink, I’ll get it for you. You need help getting up? I’ll help you.” He says it like he just offered me the best gift in the world.
“How about you go down the block and get someone else to watch me?” I grumble.
“That’s not going to happen, princess.” He shakes his head. “But if you keep playing your cards right, maybe I’ll ask your sister.” He lifts a challenging brow.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Yet . . . I think I would.”
That is all he has to say for me to fall in line.
Point to you, Trent.
In the morning,I awake to the sight of Trent sitting on the side of my bed. Just looking at me with concern on his face.
“Good morning, princess.”
Normally, the moniker bothers me.
But today, when he says it without venom, when he uses that deep rumble of his morning voice, I want to melt.
Wow.
What changed since the accident?
Maybe that concussion did something.
“Morning. Did you get much sleep in the chair?” I ask him.
“It was fine once I got used to the snoring.”
My mouth drops a little. “You woke yourself up with your own snoring?”
“No, silly, yours woke me up,” he says with the devilish look back on his face, mischievous eyes matching it.
I sit up in the bed to smack him, but as I reach forward, the movement pulls on my sore ribs, and I wince. Trent reaches forward to grab my shoulders and help me sit up.
“Thanks.”
His face is only inches away.
I can’t help but look at those lips.
Lips I want to kiss again.
He shifts and stands fully off the bed, one arm around my back to hold me upright. His other hand works to rearrange the pillows until I’m supported again.
“There. That should help. Sorry.” He pats at the pillow. “I didn’t mean to make you reach and hurt more.”
The furrow is back on his forehead again. He looks worried; the concern creeping back into the space between us.
I reach up and touch his arm.
“It’s okay. I just forget I can’t move like I want to sometimes. This is still all a little new, right?”
So is him taking care of me.
But it feels good. Better than it should.
Trent’s eyes bore into me. I take in the emotions shining from them. Determination. Sorrow. And something more tender.
He cares.
Or is it just guilt?
As if he can read my mind, he says, “I’m truly sorry for all this. It’s my fault. If I would have just left you in your rental house, if I would have just talked to Ivy in the first place and left you alone, none of this would have happened.”
“But it did, and we can’t take it back.”
“What if I want to?” he says, sitting back on the edge of the bed. He reaches out and touches my cheek with the slightest of pressure. “What if we start a different path?”
I can feel it.
The swirl of desire building between us.
Intensifying when we touch.
“You never know until you take that first step,” I whisper.
Trent reaches forward, arching toward me.
I can feel his warmth.
Feel his breath as his lips close the distance to mine yet again.
I close my eyes.
I want to savor this moment . . .
His phone rings.