Second, she’s barely wearing anything at all.
White lace cups her breasts, sheer enough that I can see the darker aureoles beneath. Matching underwear rides high on her hips, a small satin bow sitting just below her navel. Wedding night lingerie. The kind designed to be seen, then removed.
And third, her skin shows clean patches where blood has been wiped away, leaving visible bruises blooming red.
My eyes drift to an almost faded yellow bruise on her ribcage, older than anything that happened today. I reach toward it?—
She crosses her arms over her chest, bumping back against the wall.
Fuck. Here I am, looming over a half-naked woman who just got left at the altar, staring at her body like some fucking pervert.
I pick up the letter opener and step back, giving her space. “Sorry. I was just—those bruises?—”
“I fell down the stairs.”
“They got you pretty good, huh?” I gesture vaguely toward her arms. “Those hurt?”
“A bit.” She shrugs one shoulder. “I’m fine, though.”
She turns slightly, reaching for a silk robe draped over the folding screen. As she moves, I catch more marks along her side, fading but unmistakable.
“Just don’t tell anyone, okay?” She throws the robe on, cinching it tight at her waist. “I don’t want to make a fuss.”
Don’t make a fuss? Like she’s apologizing for being hurt. Like her pain is an inconvenience to others. Fucking?—
“Why are you even here?” I demand, gesturing toward the door. “You were supposed to stay in the office. With the others.”
“I was changing.” Her fingers worry at the silk belt of her robe. “Obviously.”
“Alone? With those things out there?” The stupidity of it makes my blood boil. Does she want more of those marks? “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was careful.” Her voice sounds wrong. Thicker than usual. Like she’s been?—
Crying.
The realization hits me with unexpected force. She’s been crying. Perfect, poised Dakota Levine has been hiding in here alone, falling apart where no one can see. I should be indifferent. Or better yet, satisfied.
Her family caused this mess. Her father is the reason Cameron nearly married a woman he didn’t love. The reason my brother might have been trapped for life, if not for Sienna.
“Your mother put you up to this?” I ask.
“Put me up to what?”
“This.” I point to where a bit of the bra peeks out. “The sexy bride routine. Was it her idea? Get Cameron into bed, maybe get pregnant, lock down the merger for good?”
Her face flushes dark red, anger replacing fear. “Screw you.”
“I’m just asking.” I turn away, giving her privacy to dress. “Seems like something you would orchestrate.”
“You don’t know anything about my mother or me.”
“I know enough.”
The rustling of fabric tells me she’s getting dressed. My brain unhelpfully supplies images to match the sounds, and I clench my jaw, focusing on the door, listening for threats.
“Just finish up so we can get back to the others.” I move to the bathroom door, checking inside. Empty. Clean sink. Droplets of water sit on the porcelain. She must have washed up a bit. I lean against the doorframe, still keeping my back to her. “You have a death wish?”
A harsh laugh answers me. “Would that be so terrible?”
