“I’m not going to hurt you, Ros.” The gentleness in his tone contrasted with the stiff way he held himself. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Do you understand?”
“Bryony,” she whispered. “She told you, didn’t she?”
His gaze flicked down to her arm, which she’d dropped to her side at some point. “About your father and how he treats you? Yes. I don’t know why it took her so long. I think she assumed I already knew.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I should haveknown, shouldn’t I? All the clues were there. I’m sorry for being so blind.”
Her brows pinched together. “You’re not blind.” He noticed more about her than anyone.
“Tell me, did your father hurt your wrist because you snuck out to go to Mikhail and Bryony’s wedding reception? Did he figure out where you’d gone and punish you for it?”
“Yes,” she whispered into the space between them.
His throat worked, his muscles moving as though he’d just swallowed something sharp and painful. “I’d still like to see your wrist, just to make sure it’s healing. Do you mind?”
He asked so kindly, it was almost impossible to refuse, so she held out her arm. “If you want to look at it, you can, but it’s going to take a dreadfully long time to undo the buttons on my glove without a hook.”
He came closer, his steps tentative and cautious, as though taking painstaking effort not to startle her again. Then he wordlessly began undoing the buttons that ran halfway to her elbow, his fingers large against the tiny black beads.
Outside, rain splattered the windows and pounded against the roof, but somehow the room felt small and warm, never mind there was still no fire in the stove. The feeling of her arm in his hands and the way he studied her wrist as he undid each and every button seemed to banish the coldness.
Her throat grew dry and her breath hitched, two sensations she often felt around her father. But this was different.
Far different.
Unlike last time, his closeness didn’t frighten her; it made her aware of everything about him. The rhythm of his breathing, the slight brush of his sleeve against hers, the careful way his fingers moved. From this distance she could count the various shades of brown in his eyes and see the shadow of stubble along his jaw.
And suddenly she had the strangest desire to step closer, to feel his arms wrapped around her and lay her head on his chest, just so she could hear the steady thump of his heartbeat.
Oh, what was she thinking? She was engaged, and even if she wasn’t, Yuri Amos was the last man she could get any romantic inclinations about.
He released the last button, then slowly tugged the glove off her hand.
His frown deepened as he surveyed the skin. It was ugly and discolored from fading bruises, and even though the swelling had gone down when she’d worn the sling, it was coming back.
She’d looked at it as little as possible over the past week and covered it with a glove from the moment she woke every morning to when she went to bed each night.
Yuri’s touch remained gentle as his fingers skimmed over the worst of the bruising, then he rotated her wrist with a slow turn.
She sucked in a breath when the movement sent a stab of pain up her arm.
His eyes flitted briefly up to hers, then he moved his gaze right back to her hand. Next, he took her sleeve itself and slowly slid it a few inches above her elbow, stopping only when the fabric constricted and wouldn’t go any farther.
She looked away, toward the bookshelf, the floor, anything that wouldn’t allow him to see her eyes.
He was completely silent, but somehow that was worse than facing his anger. Somehow that said more than if he had started yelling or stumbled over himself trying to talk.
Yuri wantedto be sick again. The bruising was more severe than he’d imagined. Splotches of purple and green and yellow creptfrom her wrist halfway up her forearm. And the bruises higher on her arm, away from her wrist, looked newer. They were deep purple instead of fading yellow and green, and some of them were groups of little ovals, the perfect size and shape of fingers.
His pulse kicked hard in his throat. He wanted to tear something apart. Her father. The walls. The world that let men like him walk free.
How had he missed this? How had he met her on the beach for three years without knowing? How many times had he said hello to her in town without the faintest inkling something was wrong? How many other bruises had she been hiding?
And why hadn’t she told him?
He drew in a slow breath. “You’ll have to forgive me. I usually tell people that a merry heart fixes most things. But no amount of laughter or joking will fix this. You have to let me get you out.”
“Get me out?” she whispered. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t stay in Sitka. What if your father does this again? What if it’s worse next time?”
