Fuck, I’m nervous.
“Well, before I tell you, I need you to promise me you won’t hate me because the timing is terrible or freak out and disappear on me for another week. I need you to know I have the best of intentions. It’s just time you know.”
“Brandon, what is it?” she asks, a hint of frustration in her voice as the furrow between her brow deepens.
She reaches across the table and grabs my hands, and I nearly melt right there in a puddle across the table.
“Promise,” I demand.
“I promise.”
I glance down to our joined hands, focusing on the way her slender fingers fit in mine. Her touch is electric, sending warmth radiating up my arms and straight to my chest.
This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. The words are right there, hovering on my lips, ready to change everything between us.
“Tatum, the truth is—”
The words die in my throat as my eyes catch something on her forearms. Her sleeves have ridden up slightly with the movement of reaching for my hands, revealing an odd pattern of discoloration on her skin.
My confession dies in my throat as I focus on what I’m seeing. Dark marks.Multipledark marks.
My heart stutters to a halt before resuming at double speed, rage replacing nerves as I gently turn her arm for a better look. The bruises are fading to a sickly greenish-yellow, about a week old by the look of them, and I can make out the distinct pattern of fingerprints.
Without thinking, I slide my own fingers over the marks, a perfect match for someone’s grip. Someone who held her too tightly, who hurt her. Someone whose name is already burning in my mind.
“Brandon, it’s nothing,” she whispers, but I’m already seeing red.
She tugs her arms away from my inspection, crossing them protectively over her chest, her eyes darting around the coffee shop as if suddenly aware we’re in public.
“Who did this to you?” I ask, my voice dangerously quiet.
“No one. It was just—”
I scoff. “You expect me to believe you made those marks yourself?”
“No, but I . . .” Her eyes search mine, begging me to let this go.
Not a fucking chance in hell.
“I’m going to ask you one more time. Who. Did. This?”
Her throat bobs, and I can practically see her thinking—wondering whether she should tell me the truth or a lie.
“It was just a misunderstanding.”
“Not what I asked, Tate.” I grind my molars to dust, trying not to fucking lose my mind when I say, “It was Ethan, wasn’t it? On your little weeknight getaway?”
When she says nothing, I push my chair back so hard it falls to the ground with an ominouscrack.“Fine. You don’t want to tell me, I’ll get my own answers.”
“No, Brandon, wait,” she says in a panic as I head for the door.
She rounds the table, close on my heels as she follows behind me. “What are you going to do?”
I stop so abruptly on the sidewalk outside that she nearly crashes into me. Whirling around, I face her with such sudden intensity that she flinches backward, eyes widening.
“I’m going to fucking kill him,” I snarl, my voice so low and dangerous, I barely recognize it as my own. My hands are trembling, not from fear but from the effort of restraining myselffrom punching the nearest wall. “You understand that, right? I’m going to find him and I’m going to end him.”
“It was an accident. He found out about the other weekend, and he was mad. Understandably. He’s not a violent person, and he would never hurt me.”
