Wren

His jaw ticks, hands bruised and balled up by his sides.

“Baby,” I whisper, pushing to my feet.

Before I fully stand though, he’s on me in a minute. “Sit. Don’t move, you’re hurt.”

A small chuckle slips past my lips. “My arm is hurt, not my legs.”

“If I had my way, you wouldn’t be hurt at all. So sit.”

I don’t fight him. He’s worked up already, angry lines form between his brows, and his jaw doesn’t stop ticking.

“It’s only a graze—”

“He shot ...