“What?” I ask, glancing up at her.
“Nothing,” she says, but her eyes tell a different story. “Just… You fuck so rough… but you’re so gentle.”
“Just giving you what you need. What you deserve.” I capture her mouth in another kiss. This one is softer, sweeter, and unhurried. Our mouths fit together like we’ve done this a thousand times and will do it a thousand more. When I pull back, her breath is still uneven, and her hands rest lightly on my hips like she’s afraid to ask for more but not ready to let go. “Feel better?”
She laughs softly. “A little.”
“Come on,” I say, taking her hand and leading her back to the steps, where we left her food container. I sit first, then pull her down beside me, our shoulders touching, knees pressed together. When I put the container in her hands, I notice that the plastic lid has fogged over with condensation. “You should eat before your meal gets completely cold.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat, Blake.” My tone is firm but gentle. “You probably haven’t had anything since this morning, have you?”
My answer comes in the form of her popping the lid off the container. She pushes the—previously—hot German potato salad around with her fork before filling it. After taking a bite, her eyes widen as she moans softly around the fork. “Oh my God. This is really good.”
“I’ll let the chef know,” I share, causing her to look at me with a little confusion. “Damon helped since I am, apparently, a hazard in the kitchen.
“A hazard?”
“I’m capable of making semi-burnt grilled cheese and occasionally edible scrambled eggs.”
She takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully before sassing, “Maybe I should be dating him.”
I arch a brow. “So, we’re dating?”
She fumbles, chewing too fast, swallowing like she’s suddenly aware of every word she’s saying. “Well… you are trying to knock me up, so I sure hope so.”
Dating… Me and this incredible woman.
I want it.I need it. I want mornings and messes and her laugh filling a place that feels like home. The thought of putting a baby in her—of tying her to me forever in a way that’s soft and irrevocable—settles deep in my bones like it’s the reason we’re here.Meeting her was destiny.
She fills the fork again and lifts the bite to her mouth. The sleeve of her jacket shifts, riding slightly up her arm. The bruise beneath it is impossible to miss. It’s fresh, dark, angry, and fucking finger-shaped.
“Did I do that last night?” I ask, already hating myself over the mere possibility that I was unintentionally far too rough with her.
“No.” She vehemently shakes her head. “It wasn’t you. It was a… patient.”
Reaching out, I gently take her wrist into my hand and pull the sleeve back. The bruise is worse than I initially thought. Seeing red, my jaw clenches hard enough to crack teeth.
“Who?” I ask, barely containing the rage boiling through my veins. Any man brazen enough to put his hands on her doesn’t deserve to keep them. “Who did this to you?”
She quickly diverts my stare, and her shoulders draw together like she’s bracing for a fight. Staring into her food and poking at it with her fork, she avoids answering me. But I don’t need an answer.I know. I’ve been waiting for this shoe to drop since the moment I found the handwritten threat in her trash.
I swallow hard, forcing my voice to soften. “Blake, look at me.” When she doesn’t, I slip my finger under her jaw and delicately encourage her to. Her lower lip trembling, she struggles to hold my gaze. Deep in my gut, a primal instinct stirs, and I’m ready to burn the world down to protect her. “I need you to tell me,” I insist softly. “So I can help. So I can stop this.”
“It’s nothing.” I know her lie is out of self-preservation, but it still hurts.
“Blake…”
I yank my wrist back, like his touch is burning me. “I said it’s nothing,” I blurt quickly, tugging my sleeve down to hide the deepening bruise. The angry purple fingermarks blooming beneath the fabric like a confession Jagger was never meant to see.
Jagger doesn’t look away. His eyes stay locked on my arm, his attention narrowing until it feels as if I’m the only thing in this world that matters. His teeth are clenched so tightly that the muscle in his jaw ticks in time with the beat of his rapidly rising pulse.
“It’snotnothing,” he insists. His voice is low and controlled, exercising restraint in a way that scares me more than if he’d shouted at me. And that’s the problem.He cares. His body angles toward mine, subconsciously positioning himself between me and the world. The warmth in his voice is a subtle way of letting me know that my pain—physical and emotional—matters. He stares at me as if I matter. No one has looked at me like that in a long time. “Someone hurt you, Blake.”
He cares so much that, for a split second, sitting on these concrete steps, I want to tell him everything. I want to tell him about Maryam and Aliyah. About the terror I saw in Maryam’s eyes when she woke up after surgery, certain that her husband would murder them both because of the line I crossed. Because of some stupid patriarchal tradition and his need to reassert his manhood. If I do, he’d understand why I’ve hidden them a few floors above, in a forgotten corner of this hospital. I want to tell him about the note on my door and the men who keep coming to threaten me in hopes that I’ll finally break.
I want to tell him because I trust him. And that’s exactly whyI can’t.If I spill my truth and tell him the secrets I have been hiding, he will go looking for answers. He’ll start pulling on threads that will unravel everything. He will burn the city down down to protect me. And if that happens, Maryam and Aliyah won’t just be found; they’ll be dragged back to a man who believes that ownership and violence are his right as her husband.
