“What’s wrong?” The words ripped out of me.
She looked down. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
“I saw you wince.”
She glanced up, apologetic. “My back hurts from today.”
Then I saw them.
Bruises blooming across her upper arms. Finger-shaped. Ugly.
“What did he do to you?” The words came out low, dangerous. Nothing like the man I tried to be around her.
“He grabbed me—pulled me into the alley.” Her voice shook.
I was on my feet before I knew I’d moved. She flinched when I reached for her—then eased, letting me look.
Purple. Brown. Black.
Cruel, blooming bruises.
Rage swelled—cold and exact, settling into my bones like something that had always lived there.
A rage that could ruin a man.
A rage I’d have to bury before it ruined me.
A rage I’d tried and failed to contain for years.
“And your back?”
“He kind of slammed me into the wall.”
“Kind of?”
She looked at me—dark eyes ringed with green, shining with a shame she had no business carrying.
I reached for her carefully, hands settling on her shoulders, closing the last inches between us. “I’m so sorry.”
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around my waist and pulled me in, holding on like she meant it.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
I pulled her in carefully, one hand at her lower back, one anchoring her shoulder.
She fit against me too perfectly.
Trusted me too much.
I didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve her warmth pressed against my chest, her arms around my waist, the way she held on like I was safe.
I wasn’t safe. I was the man who’d made her cry.
But God help me, I held her back like I could be.
When she finally straightened, pain flickered across her face. “It’s okay,” she tried. “I’m really fine.”
