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Wells hastens in behind me, shutting the door, and respectfully steps into the bathroom while I change her. I shuck her heels, dress, and bra off while leaving her black satin panties on, and my teeth clench to stifle my outrage until the shirt is over her head.
“Motherfucker,” I hiss, laying her down and rolling her onto the side that isn’t bruised so we can take a closer look.
That garners Wells’s attention, so he dashes out of the bathroom to my side.
“Fucking Christ,” he spits, dabbing her cut lips and cheek with a cool washcloth while I gauge the wounds on her body.
The contusions extend from her ribs to her hip, spreading to her lower back. The whole area is angry and mottled. She’ll need to see our doctor. My fingers brush over her gently. It doesn’t appear that anything’s broken, but she starts to sob.
Scooching against the headboard, I lift her head onto my lap, stringing my fingers through her hair and taking the washcloth from him to place on her forehead. I think her cries are more from the emotional trauma than the pain, so I just keep reassuring her that she’s okay until I gather the strength to ask the one question I haven’t wanted to consider.
“Did he touch you, baby?”
“Not like that,” she squeaks through a sniff.
And while that is mildly comforting, seeing her like this—my strong girl broken and distraught—is too much. I’ve never felt so helpless.
Eventually, Wells summons me back to the details that need handled. “Filmore did this?” When I nod, he strokes his hand over his chin, and I know the same guilt eating me up is coming for him. “The fuck? We vetted him.”
We failed. I failed her.
I see the deluge of questions he’s about to fling, so I divert us until we can step away. “She needs ice, pain meds, fluids.”
“Ty’s bringing it all up.” He stares at both of us for a split second, but the Chief can’t not be Chief. His features are stony with the need for answers. “Neutralized?”
“She did,” I supply, and his eyes widen.
A slew of follow-up inquiries regarding Celeste taking that prick down are undoubtedly swimming through his head.
“Did she provide details?” he probes.
“I saw enough.” I need to ask her more, but she’s not herself right now, and I was consumed with covering her tracks.
He starts pacing, working through a million scenarios, like he always does. “Does she have any idea what this was about?”
“I haven’t asked yet,” I admit, shuffling to snuggle her closer. “She isn’t—”
“He was mad about you,” Celeste whispers, and my heart sinks into my stomach.
“What?” I gasp, a mountain of regret and terror lodging in my throat.
Her brows knit together, tears sliding down her nose and dripping into her hair. “He knew what we did.”
The whole room pulses around me as I rub my forehead, sick. This is my fucking fault. Jesus. What the hell did I do?
“Liam,” Wells barks. “Stop.”
My eyes flick to his, and he sees it. The way I fucked up. I nearly got her killed because of some obsessive, savage need to claim her.
He shakes his head. “I’m not sure what she’s referring to, but I have an inkling. It does not warrant this reaction.”
“I shouldn’t have—”
“Enough,” he demands. “If Ivy had been on a date with another man after I’d already been intimate with her, I would’ve stormed it too. And it would’ve been ugly. Now, walk me through everything so we can clean this up.”
Before I can even fathom how to articulate the events of this evening, Ty bolts into the room with ice, meds, drinks, and snacks, snarling his own expletives while we mend her. The entire time, I’m inwardly berating myself. I didn’t fucking think. Filmore was supposed to be twelve floors up, so I have no idea how he knew what Celeste and I did at that table. But it doesn’t matter. I couldn’t see past the jealousy.
Switching out a pillow for my lap, I cocoon her in my fluffy comforter, lean down to plant a kiss on her temple, and dust my knuckles across the cheekbone that isn’t swollen, hating to leave her for even a second. But Ty lies down beside her, and she closes her eyes.
