“Who did that?” His voice drops lower, dangerous in a different way.
“I don’t know. Maybe your guys.”
His brow furrows. “My men?”
“Yeah.” My voice trembles despite myself. “One of them slammed my head into a car door. Another shut my hand in it. You must be so proud.”
The room goes still.
For the first time since this started, he looks less like the devil and more like a man trying not to break something fragile.
He takes a slow step toward me.
Then another.
I tell myself not to move.
Not to show fear.
He stops right in front of me, his shadow swallowing mine.
But when he raises his hand, instinct betrays me. I flinch.
A sharp breath escapes him—a sound like frustration and regret tangled together.
And instead of striking me, he brushes a thumb gently against the cut on my forehead.
The touch is barely there—warm, careful. His expression darkens as he pulls his hand back, his fingertips faintly smeared red.
Then he reaches for my injured hand.
I hesitate, pulse hammering. But he doesn’t wait. His fingers close around mine, firm but gentle as he turns my wrist to inspect the bruises already blooming across my knuckles.
His hands are steady at first—then I notice the slight tremor in them. The faint, restrained shake that betrays the calm mask he wears.
He’s furious.
Not at me.
At someone else.
His jaw tightens, and when he speaks, it’s not to me. It’s to the room.
“Who the fuck hurt her?”
Chapter 6
"Who the fuck hurt her?" My words come out forced, like they are caught in my throat.
"If I have to repeat myself…"
The words come out low, quiet enough that the air itself seems to pause. My men freeze, the room locked in silence.
My pulse thrums in my ears. My hand still grips her wrist, skin hot beneath my palm.
And that's when I notice—
I'm shaking.
