He won't be so lucky next time.
I ball the paper up and toss it into the front seat before sliding in and tearing out of the driveway.
Anger and fear crackle through me, hot and electric, surging like adrenaline in my veins. Even though I broke up with him, he should’ve said something.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, muttering a prayer under my breath that Cull isn’t hurt as badly as Hadley said.
This guy got to Cullen.
Hurthim.
I swallow hard against the lump rising in my throat, my stomach churning with fear and despair.
He wouldn’t believe me when I said this guy wouldn't stop. I’d hoped distancing myself from Cull would keep him safe, but in the end, it didn't matter.
Nothing I do ever matters.
I pull into Cull’s driveway and park behind his truck. The car is barely stopped and the key out of the ignition before I’m out and sprinting to the door. I jab the doorbell over and over, but just as I’m about to pound with my fist, the door opens.
Mrs. Eliza stands there, her smile cautious. “Hudson, sweetheart. What are you doing here?”
“Where is he?” I ask, trying to hold back from rushing past. She’s like a second mom, and I don’t want to disrespect her.
“He’s upstairs, resting.”
“I need to see him. Please.”
“I don’t think that’s—”
“It’s fine, Mom.” I hear shuffling, then Cullen steps into view behind her.
My heart stops.
I think I’m going to be sick.
He’s holding an arm across his ribs, hunched slightly. His face is wrecked. Deep bruises stretch across his skin, his left eye nearly swollen shut, and fresh stitches carve a line across his jaw.
I can’t breathe.
My eyes drag down his body, cataloging every injury. I’m too stunned to speak. I just stand there, chest caving in with every new mark I find.
“Mom, can we have a moment alone, please?”
Mrs. Eliza nods, stepping aside. But before she goes, she cups my cheek in her gentle hands and looks me in the eyes. “This isn’t your fault.”
Of course, this is my fault. Everything is my fault.
“Let’s go up to my room.”
I follow him up mechanically, my mind checking out of this hell.
He climbs the stairs at a creeping pace, wincing every few steps. The pieces of my heart grind into dust with every flinch he makes.
Once in his room, he settles against a pile of pillows. I catch sight of a couple of prescription bottles and other medical supplies on his nightstand.
I can’t handle it.
“What happened?” I ask, sitting at the foot of the bed, my voice hovering above a whisper. It feels like the words scrape their way up my throat, rough, terrified of the answer.
