Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 125866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
I inhaled a long breath, closed my eyes, and opened them again before tentatively moving toward her. I didn’t dare reach out for her, not when she looked like a scared doe ready to race across a highway if I did.
“Look at me,” I whispered.
I didn’t miss how her eyes welled with tears, but her nose flared despite them, her chin lifting and eyes finding mine in defiance. “I’m fine.”
“Who hurt you?”
“I’m not hurt.”
“Who,” I repeated, slower this time, the strain evident in my voice as I tried to keep my cool. “Did this?”
She sighed, shaking her head and looking away from me. Then, she rolled her lips together, eyes falling to the binder. “My ex.”
Madelyn
He looked like I’d just thrown a bucket of ice water over his head.
Kyle stood frozen for a long moment, and then he nodded, over and over, like I’d just told him the NFL schedule for the year, and not that I had bruises on my arm from my stupid ex-husband.
His eyes found mine, and I thought I saw them break before they hardened into stone.
“He’s dead.”
Kyle was already turning for the exit, key fob in hand and shoulders tight as a bow string. But I reached out for him, my hand catching him by the crook of the elbow.
The moment our skin touched, fire licked along my spine, a thousand memories racing to be the first to reach me. But I snuffed them out, focusing on the matter at hand.
“Don’t,” I begged, voice cracking a bit. That only pissed me off, and I blew out a frustrated breath. “I’m serious when I say he didn’t hurt me. I’m fine. But if you go acting like a big tough guy with a savior complex, you’re going to make it a lot worse.”
He spun to face me. “He can’t be worse if he’s not fucking breathing.”
I sucked my teeth, letting my hands fall against my thigh with a slap. “You sound like an absolute brute right now.”
I left out that it was annoyingly hot as hell.
“Your ex-husband bruised you,” he pointed out, slowly and with punctuation like I was ignorant.
“I am aware,” I shot back. “I am also aware that you are blatantly ignoring me when I tell you repeatedly that I am fine. You think I’m some poor victim stuck in an abusive situation? Why do you think I’m divorced?”
I waited for him to put the pieces together.
“I got out,” I said. “But unfortunately, the state doesn’t think I have enough proof to keep a well-respected veterinarian from his son. So yes, occasionally, I have to put up with his drunken temper. And yes, sometimes, he gets in a mark. But I am not a victim. I am a survivor, and these stupid bruises on my arm don’t mean shit other than that there was a situation and I fucking handled it. So, if you would kindly back out of my personal business, we can get back to finding you a house. Okay?”
The bruises that had Kyle in a tizzy didn’t even hurt — not anymore. Marshall had thrown a fit when I started to leave his house after getting Sebastian settled in the car. He was drunk and mad that I wasn’t going to stand there and listen to him try to belittle me, which happened to be one of his favorite pastimes.
He’d tried to stop me from going, his hand squeezing tight around my wrist.
I’d pulled free and warned him to keep his hands to himself.
Fortunately, that was the end of it.
It wasn’t often his temper got to that level. Usually, he used his financial power and his words to hurt me.
But this time, he’d gone just far enough off the rails to use his hands.
I’d snapped a picture of the bruises when they started to appear and hid it in a secret album on my phone, just in case.
I didn’t know how much proof the court needed, but if this little incident could help me one day — I was going to make sure to use it.
For a long moment, Kyle and I just stared at each other — me with my chin lifted, not backing down, and Kyle with his chest rapidly rising and falling, his fingers curling into fists and then releasing over and over.
Finally, he let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand and holding up the other toward me. “I’m sorry.”
“Look at me when you say it.”
That made his head snap back like I’d slapped him, and the corner of his mouth curled a bit. It reminded me of when he was a bratty fifteen-year-old, and I was sent to straighten him out.
I was halfway to it.
And then I had to go and fall in love with him.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, his blue flame eyes locked on mine this time. “Not for wanting to kill his punk ass,” he clarified, holding up one finger. “But for thinking you need anyone, least of all me, to save you.”