She sets the water down on the coffee table, and she slides down the sleeve of her sweater slowly, like she's not sure she wants to know exactly what's underneath. The bruises are worse than I thought, perfect impressions of Whitmore's fingerswrapped around her upper arm, like he thought he had any right to touch her at all.
The rage comes back, hot and immediate, so intense that I have to close my eyes for a moment. When I open my eyes again, she's watching me. There's something in her expression that I can't read, something that might be fear or might be something else entirely.
"Does it hurt?" I reach for her arm, already running my fingers over the bruises with a touch so light it's barely there, barely enough to feel the heat of her skin under my fingertips.
"A little." Her voice is small and uncertain. "It's not that bad."
"It's bad enough." I stand up and go to the bathroom. I grab Arnica gel, then get an ice pack from the freezer and a clean towel to wrap it in. When I come back, Savannah is still sitting exactly where I left her, still looking at her arm like she can't quite believe what she's seeing. Like she can't quite process that Whitmore—her fiancé, the man her father chose for her, the man she's supposed to marry—did this to her.
I sit down next to her again and take her arm in my hands. I squeeze some of the arnica gel onto my fingers and start working it into her skin in slow, careful circles. I can feel her watching me. I can feel the weight of her gaze on my face as I focus on the task of tending to her injuries, of making this better, even though I know I can't undo what Whitmore did or what I did in response. The gel is cool against her skin, and I can feel her starting to relax slightly under my touch. I can feel some of the tension leaving her shoulders as I work my way down from her upper arm to her elbow and back up again.
"Why didn't you?" she asks finally. "Kill him, I mean."
"Because Luca stopped me." I wrap the ice pack in the towel and press it gently against the worst of the bruises. She hisses slightly at the cold but doesn't pull away. "And because killinghim now would bring too much heat on my family. On you. We need to be smart about this."
"Smart about what? About killing him?" There's something in her voice now that might be horror or fascination, and I can't tell which one.
"About dealing with the threat he represents." I hold the ice pack in place with one hand and use the other to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture is so tender, so completely at odds with the violence that's still humming through my veins that it makes me feel slightly unhinged. "He's not going to let this go, Savannah. He's going to come after you. After us. After your father. We need to be prepared."
"My father." She says it like she's just remembering that he exists, like the shock has made her forget about everything except what happened in her apartment. "Oh God. Thad is going to tell my father everything."
"Probably." I don't see any point in lying to her about this. "He's probably already called him."
As if on cue, her phone starts ringing from where it's sitting on the coffee table next to the water glass, and we both look at it like it's a bomb that's about to explode. The screen lights up with her father's contact, and I can see the panic starting to creep into her eyes. She starts to reach for the phone like she's going to answer it, like she's going to try to explain or defend or apologize for something that isn't her fault.
"Don't.” My hand closes over hers before she can pick up the phone. "Not yet. Let me think."
"I have to answer it. If I don't, he'll just keep calling. He'll—" She stops, and I can see her trying to work through the implications, trying to figure out what her father knows and what he doesn't, and what Whitmore might have told him.
The phone stops ringing, and for a moment there's silence. Then it starts again immediately. This time, Savannah pulls her hand out from under mine and grabs it before I can stop her.
"Daddy," she says, and her voice is shaking.
I can hear Edgar Beauregard's voice on the other end of the line, even though she hasn't put it on speaker. I can hear the rage and the volume and the way he's shouting at her like she's a child who's misbehaved instead of a grown woman who's been assaulted by her fiancé. I take the phone from her hand—gently, giving her the chance to hold on if she wants to—and I put it on speaker so I can hear exactly what we're dealing with, exactly what threats Edgar Beauregard is making.
Exactly how much danger we're in.
"—completely unacceptable! Do you have any idea what you've done? What you've thrown away? Thaddeus called me from the hospital, Savannah. The hospital! He has a broken nose and three broken ribs, and he's telling me that the criminal you convinced me you weren’t sleeping with attacked him in your apartment. Is that true? Is any of that true?"
Savannah opens her mouth to respond, but I shake my head, and she closes it again. I can see the confusion in her eyes, the uncertainty about whether she should defend me or defend herself, or just let her father rage until he runs out of steam.
"Mr. Beauregard," I say, and my voice is calm, almost amused, the voice I use when I'm negotiating with people who think they have more power than they actually do. "This is Romeo Ciresa. I'm the criminal your daughter has been sleeping with."
There's a moment of shocked silence on the other end of the line. I can picture Edgar Beauregard sitting in his office in Charleston, his face going red with rage, his hands clenching into fists as he processes the fact that I'm not only present but actively participating in this conversation.
"Put my daughter back on the phone," he says finally, and his voice is cold now, controlled. It’s the voice of a man who's used to giving orders and having them followed.
"No," I say it simply, flatly, and I watch Savannah's eyes widen slightly at my refusal. "Your daughter is sitting right here, and she can hear everything you're saying. So why don't you say what you need to say, and we'll all hear it together."
"You have no right?—"
"I have every right." I lean back against the couch, still holding the ice pack against Savannah's arm with my free hand, still touching her in a way that's possessive and protective… and completely deliberate. "Your daughter's fiancé put his hands on her. He grabbed her hard enough to leave bruises. He threatened her. He called her a whore. And when I arrived and saw what he was doing, I defended her. That's what happened. That's the truth. And if Whitmore told you anything different, he's lying."
"Thaddeus would never?—"
"Thaddeus absolutely would." I cut him off, and I can feel Savannah tensing next to me, feel her starting to understand that this conversation is going to go places she's not prepared for. "And he did. Your daughter has bruises on her arm in the shape of his fingers. She has witnesses—my associate was there, saw everything. So before you start making threats or demands or ultimatums, maybe you should ask yourself why your chosen son-in-law thought it was acceptable to put his hands on your daughter in anger."
There's another pause, longer this time. I can hear Edgar Beauregard breathing heavily on the other end of the line, trying to control his temper and figure out how to handle this situation that's spiraling rapidly out of his control.
