Buckley's cream silk robe, unsure whether to avoid the door or the window or the kitchen or the living room."We need to recover our energy and sit tight." Sam had reclined in a broad leather armchair in front of the fire, facing the doorway like a sentry, his Glock on the armrest. He wore clean blue jeans, which stretched tight as his legs kicked out, and his chest displayed fresh black marks where Troy's fist nearly drove a hole through his right lung.A glance at me, then he continued leaning on his wrapped fist, steeped in thought. A warrior's body. A thinking man's pose.Max reared his head, yawned, and dropped back into sleep on his bed, not a care in the world."I can't just wait around for the next attack, Sam." I sidled up to Sam's chair. He'd washed Troy's blood off my skin but couldn't scrub the thorns from my nerves.Stretching his long arms, Sam cupped the back of my thighs and drew me into his lap. His touch released the taut chords holding me up, and I curled against his warm chest, careful of his bruises, grateful for his tenderness.
