"I'm fine." The words come out breathless, and I hate how small I sound. "I'm the one that is sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going."
As I speak, his gaze drops to my face, and something shifts in those storm-cloud eyes. They sharpen and focus on my cheek with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness. I watch his jaw tighten. The stillness in him transforms into something harder and more dangerous.
"Who did this to you?"
The question is soft. But there's something underneath it, something cold and lethal that makes the hair on my arms stand up. His voice hardens in a way that suggests he's already planning violence on my behalf and calculating the cost of making someone pay for the bruise blooming over my skin.
My eyes shudder closed and I try to tell myself this isn’t real. I am locked in a nightmare and I only need to wake the hell up.
"I don't know what you mean." The lie is automatic, worn smooth from years of practice.
"Don’t lie to me. You know I’m talking about the bruises." His thumb brushes my cheekbone, feather-light, and I flinch before I can stop myself. The touch is barely there, gentle enough to be almost tender, but it sends electricity crackling through my veins like lightning seeking ground. "You tried to cover them, but I’m sorry to say it didn’t work.”
He steps in and forces me back a step until my back is against the wall. He leans in and lowers himself until his eyes lock with mine.
“Someone put their hands on you. I want to know who."
His scent reaches me then, replacing the cloying sweetness of expensive perfume with something that makes my knees threaten to buckle. Cedar and smoke and something warm like aged bourbon, wrap around my senses until I can barely remember why coming here was a terrible idea. My body responds before my mind can stop it, heat blooming low in my belly, my breath catching in my throat.
This is Jonah's brother. Jonah's brother. I loathe the Moses name,I mentally remind myself.
The words echo through my head like a warning bell, but they can't seem to drown out the way my pulse races or the way my skin burns where his fingers touch.
“Was this my brother’s doing? Tell me the truth.”
Drake brushes his gaze over the discolored skin of my cheek and throat.
For one wild, desperate moment, I want to tell him everything.
I want to lean into his strength and let someone else carry the weight for once. I want to confess about Victor and the debt and Gemma and the five years I've spent drowning while pretending I know how to swim. I want to believe that this man with his storm-gray eyes and his gentle hands and his voice that promises violence on my behalf could actually save me.
The urge is so strong it steals the air from my lungs and makes my eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall.
But he's a Moses. And I trusted a Moses once before. Jonah with his easy smile and his empty promises, and all he left me with was a shattered heart and the certain knowledge that men likehim don't save women like me. They use us until we're empty and then they find someone else to drain.
His hand settles over my shoulder and then moves lower to grip around my upper arm.
“If he did, I’ll put the fucking bastard in the ground.”
“It wasn't your brother,” I answer firmly.
I don't know if Drake is anything like his brother. Something in my gut says he's not, says the man who touches my bruises like it causes him physical pain couldn't possibly share Jonah's casual cruelty. But I can't afford to trust my gut right now. My gut has been wrong before, and the stakes are too high to gamble on my broken instinct.
I step to the side, breaking his hold on my arms, and something in my chest cracks a little at the loss of his warmth.
"I had an encounter is all." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I'm clumsy. It happens." I am talking about my life choices rather than my footing, but I don’t feel like explaining all that.
He doesn't believe me. I can see it in the way his eyes narrow, the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands flex at his sides like he's fighting the urge to reach for me again. But he doesn't push or demand answers. Something about that kind of restraint makes my heart ache in ways I don't understand.
"If you need help, Ms. Bellrose," he says, and his voice is still rough, still dangerous, but there's something understanding underneath the controlled power. "If you ever need help, you can find me here."
I guess that answers at least one of my questions.
“Yes, I remember you.” He reaches out, but instead of touching my bruises he takes my chin between his fingers and lifts my gaze to his. “No one forgets a woman like you.”
Chills rush through me at his low admission. I have a million questions as to what he means by that, but I swallow all the questions down. It doesn't matter. None of this matters. I'm here for Gemma, not to rehash the past with a man whose last name reminds me of everything I'm trying to leave behind.
"Thank you, Mr. Moses." The words scrape against my throat like broken glass. "If you'll excuse me."
