She appeared in front of him, clutching her torn dress to cover her strapless bra. “Dad wants us to go before the paramedics get here.”
In the back of his mind, he thought to encourage her to leave by herself so he could...
“I’m not leaving without you,” she said before he could finish that thought.
Chyort.
He let Lydia lead him out of the women’s restroom instead of killing her adopted brother.
There was a walk to an elevator after that, and then, suddenly, they entered a dimly lit room with a carry-on suitcase lying open on the bed.
“Sit there,” Lydia instructed, pointing to the edge of the bed. “I’m going to find something for your hand.”
Only then did he realize his knuckles were torn and already swelling. His skin was split open, and the back of his right hand was starting to bruise. This was why his Uncle Bair had advised about always carrying at least a pair of thin gloves to throw on just in case he had to engage in physical combat. Yom had forgotten that golden rule.
He sat down in a daze and looked around what appeared to be the most standard room the Benton Grand had on offer. No city view. Just the main bedroom space and a bathroom.
He had the penthouse suite reserved at the Tourmaline Chicago. They could and should head there.
But first, he had to go quiet and still... quiet and still... as he waited for the rage to ebb from his body.
“Okay, maybe this will help for now.” Lydia was back. Barefoot and redressed in a nightshirt. Coming to stand between his legs, she yanked his hand up to press a cold towel to it. “If this doesn’t help, I’ll run down to the store to get, like, bandages or something. I’m not sure what exactly to do here. I might have to watch a YouTube tutorial.”
The cold towel helped. Yom did not like that. He wanted the pain, the burning reminder that he’d left the job undone.
“I don’t know whether to thank you for defending me or yell at you for going way too far,” she grumbled.
Let me kill him, Yom begged silently. Even in this state, he realized saying the words out loud would upset her.
So he said nothing at all, just let a tense silence gather between them as she pressed the towel into his knuckles.
“Yom—” Her voice cracked. “Seriously, I don’t... I don’t know what to say.”
Yom took the towel from her and set it aside.
Then wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her close, resting his pounding head against her stomach as a sudden weariness washed over him.
He could only hope—pray—she wouldn’t push him away.
She didn’t. She let him rest there, stroking a hand through his hair. There would be no need for her to run to the store, he thought as he nuzzled his head into her touch. This was the only medicine he needed.
Quiet and still and Lydia.
But then he had to ask, had to know, “Is this first time he hurt you?”
“Um...”
Lydia’s voice shook. She wasn’t like him. She had a moral compass. Yom could almost hear the debate going on inside her head about whether or not to lie.
“He’s gotten angry with me before.”
So that was a yes. Dark thoughts churned in his mind.
“Promise me you won’t hurt Paul when I’m not looking,” she said, cutting into his murderous thoughts.
Yom wouldn’t—couldn’t promise that. He raised his head to look up at her and patiently waited until she realized that truth for herself.
Her pleading expression was eventually replaced by a terrible, horrified look.
