I don’t care what my plans were. Crimson thinks she’s becoming my wife, and however miserable that idea seems to make her right now, that’s what’s going to happen. From the moment the doctor opened his mouth and began listing her injuries, that was a fait accompli.
Another five minutes, and my control is as firm as it’s going to be. I travel upstairs and when I rejoin her in the living room, I take the chair next to hers. My knuckles throb and my palms are so sweaty that I wipe them dry against my pants leg before taking her hand. “I’m not the greatest communicator of all time, but I’m sorry for saying those things to you. I’m not a—”
My voice chokes on the words. A wave of everything I had planned crashes into my mind, dragging away my thin veneer of control as it retreats, readying itself for another swell.
I was going to fuck her and send her home bleeding. Punishment for a crime she knows nothing about.
Using her for my revenge the same way her father must use her for a punching bag.
I whip my hand away from hers, afraid my darkness will infect her.
Her lips twist as my voice comes to an abrupt stop. “Not a what? Not a bully? Not a bad man? Not the type of person who’d force someone to marry them just because he wanted access to their dad’s fortune?”
I tilt my head forward, letting my hair fall across my eyes, lips pursing as I blow out a long breath. “I was going to say I’m not a bad man, but…” I give a small shrug. “I think anybody in this line of business knows that’s not the truth.”
If I’d known she lived with an abusive parent, I never would have babbled those stupid drunken thoughts. Of course, I’m not going to kill her.
Of course, there’s now no chance she’ll just take my word for that.
“Does my little brother know he beats you?”
Her arms fly into the air, waving with exasperation. “Nobodybeatsme. You’re not listening.”
I reach for her hand again, my calloused palm engulfing hers so completely that it disappears. “You heard what the doctor said.”
She huffs out a breath. “I think that man got his degree from a cereal box.” When I give a short laugh, she presses forward. “All my belongings are there. All my clothes. I’ll need to collect those anyway, so it just makes sense to stay—”
My face contorts with anger and Crimson breaks off. She can’t honestly believe I’ll send her home after hearing the list of her injuries.
“Do you have any items of sentimental value?” I let go of her hand to pull a phone from my inside pocket, ready to start a list. “Photos? Heirlooms? Anything like that.”
“Dad gave me a necklace for my birthday.”
“Today?” When she nods, “I don’t think a gift less than a day-old counts as an heirloom. Anything else?”
“There’s lots of stuff. I’ll need to go through everything…”
She trails off as I give a wry chuckle and shake my head. “You’re persistent. I’ll give you that much.”
“He doesn’t hurt me.” When my expression doesn’t change, she folds her arms. “I know you think I’m manipulating you to get my own way, but I wouldn’t lie about something like that. I was raised better.”
I don’t believe it for a second but it’s obviously important to her to convince me.
Since she’s safe here with me, far from danger, I try to soften my position. “Someone hurt you,” I point out in a tight voice. “Bones don’t break themselves.”
When she still doesn’t alter her posture, I relent further, tucking my phone away. “Did you really grow up with a lot of rough cousins?”
“When I was little.” She shrugs. “After Mum died, I never saw them again, so they must’ve been from her side of the family.”
The response is so vague, it must be a lie. Maybe one her father fed her so long ago that she doesn’t even realise it’s not the truth. I angle in on the other thread of her sentence. “Your mum died?”
She gives a tight nod. “Of cancer.”
If it was around the same time, maybe that explains the escalation in frequency of her injuries. It hurts to think of the little girl she must have been. Lost in grief with her remaining parent taking their frustration out on her instead of helping.
Crimson takes little peeks at me, probably to see how her stories are landing. I keep my expression as blank as I can, but I won’t be able to make the mask stick for long.
“It’s late,” I say, the words so riddled with repressed emotion that it sounds like an admission of failure. “Time we went to bed.”
