The split in her lip, crusted with dried blood.
The way she winces when I touch her jaw.
And around her throat?—
Bruises. Dark, angry bruises in the shape of fingers.
His fingers wrapped around her neck, squeezing, choking, claiming.
Something cold settles in my chest.
"Can you walk?" I ask.
She nods, but when she tries to open the door, her hands are shaking too badly to grip the handle.
I'm out of the truck and around to her side in seconds, pulling the door open and lifting her into my arms.
"I can walk," she protests weakly.
"I know. Let me carry you anyway."
She doesn't argue.
Just presses her face into my neck and holds on.
I can feel her trembling against me, feel the wetness of fresh tears soaking through my shirt.
Every step I take toward the clubhouse, my rage grows hotter.
The common room goes quiet when I walk in.
Ruger's at the bar with Tildie, Maddox is in the corner working on something with his hands, a few prospects are playing pool.
They all look up when the door opens, and I watch their expressions shift as they take in what I'm carrying.
Tildie's on her feet immediately, her face going pale. "Jesus Christ. What happened?"
"Not here." I don't stop walking. "Our room. Now."
Ruger catches my eye as I pass.
I see the questions there—the concern, the anger already building—but he doesn't speak.
Just gives me a short nod that says we'll talk later, and lets me go.
Our room is quiet and dark.
I lay Vanna on the bed as gently as I can, like she's made of glass, like she might shatter if I move too fast.
Then I switch on the lamp, and the warm light makes everything worse.
The bruises are darker than I thought.
More extensive.
They wrap around her throat like a collar, purple and black and angry.
I'm going to kill him.
