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For a long moment, I stand there, staring down at her like she’s a mirage. But she isn’t. She’s real. Here.
Just as beautiful as I remember.
Her dark, silky hair hangs snarled over her shoulders. Her eyes are the color of earth after a rainstorm. Deep, dark brown against the pale ivory of her skin.
Too beautiful for words.
I’m fucked.
I kneel in front of her and unzip the first aid kit. “Where else are you hurt?”
She shakes her head. “Just the arm.”
“Justthe arm? That’s fucking enough, don’t you think?” My voice comes out rough. I can’t keep it together; I ball my fists to regroup. “Let me clean that cut on your lip.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’m okay.”
“Dakota,” I warn. My eyes lock on her face. It looks like someone grabbed her by the jaw and squeezed. Hard. “Don’t argue with me.”
“Still bossy, I see.” Her tone is light yet strained.
I grunt, digging through the kit for some gauze and antiseptic. Gently, I dab at the cut on her swollen lip. As I tilt her head back to check her pupils for a concussion, my vision fuzzes with rage.
I pride myself on having a cool head, a calm center, but when it comes to Dakota McGraw, I lose the battle. Every fucking time.
She watches me closely like she’s been as curious about me as I have been about her all these years.
She leans in, breaking the tense silence. “I like your scruff, Hotshot.”
“Is that what we’re talking about, my scruff? How about your face?”
She flinches. “What about it, Davis?”
“Tell me what happened, Koty.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispers, her gaze skating away from me. “You’re here now. I got out. I’m safe.”
“It fucking matters,” I growl. “A whole hell of a lot.”
She waves her hand up her body, stopping at her face. “What do you think?” Bitterness stains her husky voice. “I lived right. I loved wrong. End of fucking story.”
My heart stutters at the word love. So this is where she’s been the last two years. Why the texts stopped. Why her visits home to Resurrection became rarer and rarer.
Her bruised, delicate jaw clenches. “And now…I’m running.” She gives me a crooked, tired smile. “On the lam, something sad and pathetic like that.”
“Not sad and pathetic.”
“It is to me. I should have known better.”
“Who?” I grind out.Tell me. Just fucking tell me so I can buy a shovel and gallon of bleach. “Who did this?”
She sits silent. Stubborn.
“Your…husband?” Fuck. I don’t recognize the sound of my own voice.
She flinches when I say the words. “No. Not my husband.”
Thank Christ.
