“It’s fine.” She hesitated. “T-turn around, please.”
I obeyed. Not that I didn’t want to see her body—I did—but I didn’t want to like this.
She pulled the hoodie over her head. This one didn’t have a zip: it was all one piece of fabric.
“You can look now.”
I turned back.
“There,” I said, leaning down. “Feeling better?”
She nodded. “Th-thanks.” She seemed unable to keep my gaze, yet also seemed to want to look at me, like when we took a walk to the tattooparlor the other night. Instead, she looked down at the sleeves of the hoodie. “S-sorry I ruined your other one.”
“You didn’t ruin it,” I said, sitting down beside her, close enough that our knees were brushing. “That jackass did. And hopefully while we’ve been in here, Kane has let him know exactly how much of a jackass he is. Anyway, a little beer will wash out.”
Ingrid nodded. She fiddled with the sleeves. They hung past her wrists, close to her fingers.
“Your arms are a little longer than mine.”
I smirked, trying to lighten the mood. “How about I help you with that?”
I reached forward, rolled up the sleeve past the wrist—and froze.
A shadow on her skin caught my eye. My thumb traced the dark shape before I could stop myself. Ingrid gasped softly, shoulders tensing as she moved her arm, but I was already pushing the sleeve higher. Past her wrist. Over the forearm. All the way to her elbow.
It was a bruise—the unmistakable shape of a handprint, fading but ugly.
My blood turned cold, my voice coming out darker. “Did someone give this to you?”
She bit her lip, looking away for a heartbeat before shaking her head. “No.”
I didn’t believe her for a damn second. The protective instinct that had been simmering since the café flared into something far more dangerous, hotter than the adrenaline from the fight. “Ingrid?”
“I’m sure,” she whispered, the softest lie I’d ever heard.
I wanted to press her, but in her search for anything to look at but me, her eyes landed on the clock on the wall above the door. “It’s getting late. I’d better go.”
I gave a slow nod. “Your parents don’t want you out past ten, huh?”
She didn’t confirm it—just whispered, “My abuelita gave me permission.”
My jaw ticked. If her grandmother had to give her permission, then her father definitely didn’t.
Had he put the bruise on her? He hadn’t been happy the other night when she got back late. It seemed likely—but I couldn’t push, not yet. Instead, I rose and said, “I’m going to jump in the shower for five minutes. Once I’m dressed, I’m taking you home, okay?”
She nodded, looking small and quiet.
I headed for the showers, but my mind wasn’t on the water or the fight or the winnings.
It was already spinning with questions.
Because all I could see was that bruise.
And all I thought about was how many bones I’d have to break to make sure it never happened again.
I paced the length of my apartment. Every time my feet hit the floor, I felt the vibration of my own heartbeat, my knuckles still stinging, my adrenaline still up from the tournament and now fromhim.
My father had called.
