Split lip, crusted with dried blood.
Bruises on her cheekbones, her jaw, her throat—Christ, her throat is a mottled map of purple and yellow, layered bruises that tell me this wasn't the first time. Just the worst.
She's shaking. Full-body tremors that she can't control.
Her arms are wrapped around her midsection like she's trying to hold herself together, and her one good eye is darting around the room, looking for threats.
When that eye lands on me, she stops shaking.
"He said—" Her voice cracks. She swallows, tries again. "He said I had to pay. For what I did. For what happened to him."
The rage hits me so fast I can't breathe.
It's not the cold, controlled anger I'm used to.
Not the calculated fury that lets me make hard decisions without flinching.
This is something else. Something primal. Something that wants to tear Cain apart with my bare hands and watch him bleed.
I cross the room in three strides.
The crowd parts for me—brothers, clubwhores, hang arounds, all stepping back like they can feel the rage radiating off me.
"Get her cleaned up," I bark at Tawny. "Water. First aid kit. Now."
Tawny nods, already moving. Paige follows.
But Ripley doesn't move.
She's staring at me with that one good eye, and I realize she's waiting.
Waiting for me to tell her this was her fault.
Waiting for me to turn her away.
Waiting for confirmation of everything that bastard told her about herself.
I crouch down in front of her, putting myself at her eye level.
Up close, the damage is even worse.
I can see the individual marks of his knuckles on her cheekbone.
Can see the way her lip split right down the middle.
Can see the fear in her eye warring with something else.
Hope.
She's hoping I won't send her away.
Hoping I'll help.
And that hope—fragile, desperate, barely alive—does something to me that I don't understand.
I reach out slowly, giving her time to flinch away.
She doesn't.
