Clara.
Indie pressed the phone to her ear. “Hey.”
“Indie, I heard about Colt’s mother. Is she okay? Is Colt?”
Indie leaned her hip against the counter and closed her eyes. “No. Neither of them are okay. Syliva’sgoing to be in the hospitalfor a few days, and I’m worried about Colt. He’s barely talking to me, and I don’t know whether to give him space or not.”
“Oh, Indie. I’m sorry. You know, when Becket’s upset, he says he needs space, when really, I think he just doesn’t know how to ask for help.”
Her gaze shifted to the closed bedroom door. “Should I go to him?”
“Do youwantto go to him?”
“Yes.” It was a full-body yes. Every part of her wanted to be close to him right now.
“Then go.”
She nibbled her bottom lip. Clara was right. “Thanks, Clara. I’ll call tomorrow.”
She hung up and walked to the bedroom.
CHAPTER 22
Colt gripped the edge of the bathroom counter.
He could barely breathe.
His fault. This washisfucking fault. His mother had called him for help. And yeah, on a deeper level, he knew he’d never have made it in time. But she’d been scared,sufferingat the hands of that piece of shit father of his, and she’d calledhimfor help. But he hadn’t answered.
And Ben…the man who’d been more of a father than his own dad ever had, had been shot and was in surgery.
He tore off his clothes and stepped into the shower, making the water hot. So hot it burned his skin.
He’d said he wanted to kill his father so many times but never really meant it. Now though? If the man was in this very room with him, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. And he’d do it slowly. Make him hurt. Suffer the same way everyone around him suffered.
He pressed his palms to the wall of the shower and tried to breathe. To draw oxygen into his lungs even though the air was too thick.
The bathroom started to fill with steam. There was too much anger inside him, and he didn’t have anywhere to put it. It was trying to claw its way out of him. Hurting him. Choking him.
The door opened with a click, followed by the soft thud of footsteps.
Colt didn’t move. He couldn’t even look at her. If he couldn’t protect his own mother, how would he protect his wife? He felt undeserving of her.
There was a creak of the glass shower door opening, then warm, familiar arms slipped around his middle and a cheek pressed to his back.
He just stood there, frozen. Still barely breathing. Still angry. Still wrecked.
“It’s not your fault,” she whispered, her words running over his skin, like cool water on the hot rage burning through him.
He lowered the temperature of the water and turned. Indie’s brows were tugged together, her naked skin wet from the water that had slipped from his body to hers. And her eyes, those beautiful, soulful greens, seared into him.
She reached up and cupped his cheeks. “It’snotyour fault.” She said the words slowly…firmly. Like she knew they were the only words capable of pulling him back from the edge.
“I didn’t answer her call.” Guilt. It coated each word.
“It wouldn’t have changed anything if you had.”
He swallowed hard. “I hate him.”
