Page 41 of Break Me

“No,” I say, even though we both know I’m lying. “I’ll be fine.”

Her brows pull together, worry softening every line of her face. She lifts her hand like she’s afraid to touch me wrong again. “I can’t believe Knox did this to you. It’s all my fault.”

“None of this is your fault,” I say, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

But she shakes her head. “I should’ve done more to stop him. I should’ve⁠—”

“Raven.” I lean down, brushing my lips against hers. “The only thing that got me through that was knowing you still chose me after.”

Her fingers land feather-soft on my bruised ribs, carefuler now, almost reverent. Her gentleness steals my breath.

“Why didn’t you tell me how badly you were hurt?” she asks.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” I confess. “I’ve already done enough damage tonight.”

“I don’t care how you look,” she says, voice trembling. “I care if you’re hurting.”

Something in my chest cracks wide open.

I take her hand, guiding it back to my skin, slower this time, letting her feel the truth of me. Every rough edge, every bruise, every place where loving her has cost me something I’ve never once regretted.

She sits up straighter, cupping my face in both hands. “Let me take care of you,” she murmurs.

And God help me, I want to let her.

I kiss her again, soft, lingering, as her hands slide to the hem of my shirt.

“Can I?” she murmurs, her breath warm against my throat.

“Yes,” I rasp, catching her wrist and kissing the inside of it. “Keep going.”

When my shirt finally clears my head, she lets it fall to the floor. Her eyes sweep over me—over every mark, every bruise, every place Knox’s fists collided with my flesh.

Her fingertips trace the dark bruise across my ribs, so soft it barely registers as touch. But the look in her eyes? That lands hard.

“I hate that he hurt you,” she whispers.

“I’ve had worse,” I say. “But I’d do it all over again for you.”

Her hands flatten against my bare chest, warm and steady.

“Am I hurting you?” she whispers against my lips.

“It only hurts,” I breathe, “when you’re not touching me.”

Her eyes darken. Then she pulls me down by the waistband of my jeans, her mouth brushing mine in a kiss that’s slow and hungry.

I groan into her lips and slide my hand up her waist, under her shirt, feeling the warm lines of her body arch into mine. My thumb skims under the band of her shorts, and she lifts her hips in the smallest, quietest invitation.

Hooking my fingers into the waistband, I drag them down her thighs, ensuring she feels every movement. Slow enough to savor the way her skin warms under my hands. She kicks her pants free without breaking eye contact.

My hand runs up her thigh as I trace every soft curve. Her legs fall apart just enough for me to fit between them again.

“So beautiful,” I breathe against her lips.

Her fingers curl into my shoulders, pulling me closer, wanting more, needing it as badly as I do. The feeling shoots through me, raw and electric. I can’t stand the fabric between us anymore.

Bracing against the mattress, I lift myself just enough to reach my belt. The movement pulls at my ribs, and I grit my teeth.