My eyes dropped to her wrist again. Yeah. That explained the break. She let out a quiet breath. “First fistfight of my life and I immediately break my wrist.”
A beat.
“Ten out of ten experience. Highly recommend.”
The corner of my mouth twitched.
She shifted slightly in my arms.
“Yeah. I think I broke it.” She repeats while looking at her wrist.
“You did.”
No point in lying.
She went quiet again for a moment, then said the words that made something dark wake up inside my chest. “He tried to force himself on me.”
My entire body went still.
My arm tightened around her waist before I even realized I was doing it.
“Fuck.”
The word left my mouth low and dangerous.
“He grabbed me out front,” she continued quietly. “Right outside the bar.”
My jaw tightened.
“I told him to let go. He laughed.”
A small breath left her.
“So I punched him.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Well… attempted to punch him.”
Silence filled the room again.
But my head was already ten steps ahead. Some drunk piece of shit thinking a girl standing outside alone meant easy prey. Badmove. Real bad move. Because now I was involved. And I didn’t walk away from shit like that. Not once it crossed my path.
I looked down at her face. Mascara smeared under her eyes, hair a mess. Exhaustion written all over her. And somehow… somehow she was still beautiful.
That annoyed me.
I didn’t do women. Didn’t take them home. Didn’t deal with their problems. Club girls existed for a reason—easy, temporary, uncomplicated.
But this girl? This girl punched a man unconscious. Then walked ten damn miles down a dark road with a broken wrist.
Something about that pressed against my ribs in a way I didn’t understand.
Didn’t like it.
But I wasn’t ignoring it either. And that right there was the problem.
My hand slid down to her injured arm and lifted it carefully. The second I touched her wrist, she sucked in a breath.
Yeah. Definitely broken.
