She came up swinging. Her fist connected with his nose, and she felt the satisfying snap as his head popped back.
“Son of a bitch!”
The snarl had her rolling over despite the scream of protest from her arm. She drew back, ready to hit him again, her other arm instinctively over her belly.
“For God’s sake, it’s me, Garrett. You were dreaming.”
She blinked and stared up at the man looming over her. He was holding his nose, and blood smeared his fingers.
She couldn’t even bring herself to apologize. The words stuck in her throat as she remembered what an ass he’d been so far.
“What the hell’s going on?” Donovan demanded as he walked up. He looked at Garrett with an expression of disbelief. Then he cocked his head in Sophie’s direction and arched an eyebrow in question.
“She decked me,” Garrett said.
Donovan’s shoulders shook and his lips twitched. His eyes gleamed in merriment.
Garrett made a sound that came out as a grunt. “She packs a mean right.”
“Look, I didn’t mean to,” she said in disgust. “I thought you were the ass**le trying to kill my baby.”
She clutched her arms tighter around herself and refused to look back up at them. The two men remained silent, and finally she heard Garrett walk away. A moment later she heard the kitchen faucet turn on.
“Where’s Sam?” she asked, still not looking at Donovan.
“Making another pass. Making sure we don’t have more company.”
She did look then. “More? Are they here already?” She shook her head, clearing the remnants of her drugged, fogged-up feeling.
“You drugged me,” she said through her teeth as she sat forward on the couch.
He stepped warily away. The memory came flooding back of her begging and pleading for them to let her go.
“Who’s out there?” she demanded.
She rose unsteadily to her feet and cursed when Donovan reached out to prevent her from falling.
“Hey, you okay? Maybe you should sit back down.”
“You stay away from me,” she muttered as she side-stepped him.
He sighed. “You were in pain.”
She bared her teeth. “When is Sam going to be back? And you never answered my question. Who’s out there?”
Garrett returned from the kitchen and frowned in her direction.
“I don’t know who was out there. He wasn’t up for conversation,” Donovan said.
“Why aren’t you two out there with Sam?” she demanded. “What if something happens to him?”
Garrett shot her an incredulous look. “Nothing’s going to happen to him. Sam can handle himself.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re in here.”
“You want something to eat?” Donovan asked.
Startled, she glanced at him, trying to remember the last time she’d eaten. Powered by the suggestion, her stomach caved, and she broke out in a sweat. Her hands shook.
“Have a seat,” Donovan said gently. “I’ll bring you some soup, okay?”
With a resigned sigh, she sank back onto the cushion. Donovan disappeared into the kitchen, leaving her with Garrett.
“Do you always have that look on your face?” she asked.
For a moment his frown slipped and he looked startled by the question. Then he scowled but didn’t reply. She shrugged and settled back on the couch, closing her eyes wearily.
Her drug-induced coma hadn’t been a substitute for a good hard sleep, and now her body was nearing shutdown. The smell of chicken wafted across her nose, and she stirred but was so tired, she wasn’t sure she could summon the strength to open her eyes and eat.
“Sophie.”
Her eyes flew open to see Sam standing there, his gaze boring into her. Had he always been so tall and muscled? She’d spent a lot of time naked with him, but now, dressed in a black T-shirt and camo pants, he looked . . . fierce. Like a man she didn’t know and wasn’t sure of.
“You need to eat,” he said.
It was then she saw the bowl in his hand. She swallowed nervously. They hadn’t talked—hadn’t said anything since she’d dropped her bomb on him. Should she tell him her father was dead? That she’d killed him? Would he even believe her?
Her stomach bottomed out again, and she covered her nervousness by shifting position on the couch. Her arm was starting to ache fiercely again, and despite her anger over the forced painkiller, it would have been nice to have the pain subside again.
She cleared her throat, hating to show weakness. She’d been forced to show strength in front of her father for so long that it was ingrained.
“Do you have something for pain?” she asked. “Like a pill. Something that won’t knock me out.”
The lines in Sam’s forehead deepened. “Of course. Here.” He handed her the bowl and slid the spoon around the inside until it rested against her finger. “I’ll get you some ibuprofen.”
She cupped the bowl in her palms and let the warmth bleed into her hands. She sighed as she inhaled and closed her eyes to let the steam rise over her cheeks. It smelled like heaven.
Sam returned with a small plastic bottle and a glass of milk. He shook out a couple of the tablets and sat next to her on the couch. Then he held up the milk.
His gaze dropped to her belly. “For the baby,” he said gruffly.
Carefully she put the bowl on her lap, balancing it carefully so the soup didn’t spill. Touched by the gesture, she took the milk and the pills and then peered at him over the rim of the glass as she chased the medicine down.