“Hi, this is Keoni Pierce from Wildhart. Did a black sedan with the license plate 728–RLD just leave?”
“Yes, Mr. Pierce.”
“Good. Add it to the no-entry list. The individual’s name is Michael. I’ll give you his last name tomorrow. He isnotallowed back on the property.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll pull the surveillance and add his photo to the wall for easy identification by all stationed guards.”
“Thank you.”
I hang up quickly and shove the phone into my pocket.
With the kit in hand and a damp washcloth ready, I return to the kitchen. Ayden is leaning against the dining table, his back to the living room, eyes fixed on the window above the sink. There’s a distance in his gaze so stark it’s almost visible, like a fog hanging over him.
I set the kit and cloth beside him, then turn to the cabinets for a glass. Neither of us speaks—me for too many reasons, him likely for just as many. My adrenaline still burns hot, my pulse racing, but I’m not shaking. Maybe my need to stay strong outweighs the fact that a gun was pointed at me minutes ago.
I down a swallow of water, refill the glass, then turn off the faucet.
When I face Ayden again, I hold it out to him. He lifts his head, meeting my gaze, and without breaking eye contact, takes the cup.
“Thanks…”
“Mhmm.”
Only after a few sips does he rest it in his lap, holding his gaze on it.
I pick up the washcloth, step between his legs—he shifts, spreading them wider to make room—and begin cleaning him up.
“He isn’t myboyfriend.”
Drawing the damp towel along his jaw, wiping away the drying line of blood, I let out an unamused chuckle.
“As I told him, he could’ve been the Pope. I don’t care.”
My other hand settles against the curve of his neck as I continue carefully cleaning around the cut.
“Suppose this was one way to tell you.” He sighs, and I can see he wants to turn away, but I’ve got him positioned so he can’t. “I know you told me not to apologize, but I have to. I’m sorry, Keo—ouch!”
He hisses through his teeth when I brush too close to the cut. It isn’t deep, but those always seem to hurt worse. The gash sits near his eye, forcing it partly closed.
“You did that on purpose…” he mutters.
“Possibly… but what did you mean? One way to tell me, what?”
He shuts his eyes and tilts his head back. I set the cloth aside and rummage through the first aid kit for what I need.
“He’s the reason I never came…”
My hand freezes over the box. A twitch jerks through my fingers, veins rising beneath my skin. Rage floods me at those simple words.
“I should’ve asked for help a long time ago. I wanted to.”
“How long?”
He pauses, and I shift to peer down at him.
“Six years.”
“Ayden…”
