James looks at him through the rear-view mirror, and without a word, he simply nods.
The kiss Maddox plants on me is more than the lust-fueled frenzy we’ve met each other with the last couple of days. It’s deep and passionate and threaded with promises of safety within his arms.
And that is nearly enough to make me forget about the pain of my new wounds.
CHAPTER TWELVE - MADDOX
I’VE NEVER BEEN more livid in my entire life.
I think the stars behind my eyes are from my fury, though I can’t be sure. They could be left behind from nearly blacking out at the sight of Andi against that fucking wall.
I should have hunted the bastard down right then and there and left his body in the trash.
But seeing her curling on the ground blinded me.
“I can manage upstairs,” she argues as we leave the car. “I don’t want anyone to find us. I can’t let you—”
“Hey—” I tug her chin so that she’s looking up at me, and my fist tightens at the sight of tears in her eyes. “I’m not leaving you tonight,” I tell her. “Garage or pool house.”
She swallows as if she finally realizes I’m not giving up this argument. “Pool house,” she decides.
James pauses at the door. “Do you need me?” he asks.
“I think we’re okay,” I reply. “Thank you,” and I hope to hell he knows I mean it.
As James quietly turns out of the drive, Andi and I head through the side gate to the back deck and pool house. Once there, I draw every curtain and drape across the windows, lock the doors, and press a chair beneath the front handle.
No interruptions.
She shouldn’t have to answer questions she doesn’t want to.
Not until she’s ready.
As soon as everything is secured, I sprint to the bathroom for towels, the fridge for an ice pack, and alcohol in the cabinet. I’m frantic. My mind races with everything I need to help clean her wounds.
The one I’m most scared of is the one on her hip.
Fuck, I hope she doesn’t need stitches.
When I return to the sitting room, I notice that she’s pulling her shirt over her head, and her jeans have fallen open at her waist.
Everything appears so much worse in this lighting.
“Don’t—Wait—” I halt her before she sits on the couch. “Lay down so I can look at that one,” I say, nodding to her stomach.
She doesn’t argue or speak, and I clench my jaw at the fright wavering in her eyes.
I’ll fucking kill him.
I dart to her with my supplies as she lays down on the couch and swear under my breath when I glimpse the gash.
“What is it?” she asks.
“You need fucking stitches,” I tell her.
My head sinks into my hand. I should have taken her to the hospital, to the police, damn what anyone might have said upon seeing me with her. I can handle one overnight in jail—it wouldn’t be the first time—so long as she gets the help she needs.
“We’re not going to the hospital,” she says as if she can read my mind.
