I carried her down the short hallway toward her room while she watched me with those big, tired eyes that had seen too much tonight and still somehow managed to judge my technique.
“For the record,” she murmured, “this is giving caveman.”
“You love when I give caveman.”
“I tolerate caveman when caveman has emotionally disturbing arms.”
“Praise.”
“Don’t get hard over compliments right now. Read the room.”
“That’s not what I’m getting hard over.”
Her mouth parted, and there she was for half a second, alive in the middle of all that wreckage, cheeks pink, eyes flashing. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
I laid her on the bed and climbed in behind her before she could find something else to throw at me. She let me pull her back against my chest, but I felt the question in her body. The slight stiffness. The way she wasn’t afraid of me but still wasn’t used to someone moving her from one safe place to another just because he decided she deserved better than a couch after tearing herself open.
I wrapped an arm around her waist and held her there. For a while, neither of us said anything. That was probably good because every thought in my head had teeth.
Finally, I pressed my mouth against her hair and said, “My thoughts are a mile a minute.”
Her fingers found mine over her stomach. “Sounds crowded in there.”
“It is.”
“Do they need snacks? Because we have Doritos and whatever weird protein bar Charm bought that tastes like pencil shavings and betrayal.”
I huffed a quiet laugh into her hair. “Pip.”
“Fine.” Her voice softened. “Talk to me.”
That did something to my chest I didn’t have time to examine.
I stared over her shoulder into the dark room. Her room smelled like vanilla, fabric softener, and her. There were little pieces of Bliss everywhere. Books stacked sideways on the nightstand. A glittery tumbler on the floor beside her bed. A hoodie half hanging out of a laundry basket. Some tiny ceramic ghost wearing a pink bow sitting on her dresser like it had been appointed guardian of her chaos.
“I don’t know how to do this part,” I admitted.
She didn’t move.
“The emotions. The rage. The fear.” My hand tightened against her stomach before I made myself ease up. “I’ve never been scared like this.”
Her breathing changed. Not much, but enough.
I kept going before she could turn around and look at me because I didn’t know if I could say it with her eyes on me.
“I left that barbecue thinking you had a douchebag ex who got violent. Violent, I can handle. I understand violent.” My jaw flexed. “I’m violent.”
“You’re not like him.”
“I know.” I said it immediately because that part didn’t get to breathe between us. “Violence doesn’t scare me. Guys who swing because they’re pissed off don’t scare me. I know what to do with that.”
Her thumb brushed across my knuckles.
“This is different,” I said. “He’s different. He isn’t just reacting. He’s calculating. He’s unstable, and all I did was piss him off.”
Bliss went quiet in my arms.
