“Where else did he touch you?”
“He’s dead.”
“Where else?”
A gentle hand covers the one that grips the knife.
For a moment, I think she’s trying to take it off me. But she’s not. She’s guiding me.
The knife point hovers over his ruined cheek. I slash his face without hesitation.
The thought of him touching her there, a gentle caress or an act of violence, I don’t know which is worse.
Did he know he was touching something that didn’t belong to him? Could he not see me marked on her skin? Could he not see the ghost of my touch from only a few hours before?
“It’s done.”
I look at her then, really look at her. I take in the quiver of her bottom lip, despite the stubborn set of her jaw, pride the only thing that keeps her standing. I look at the bruises on her neck, at the blood on her hands, at her arm, slashed deeply.
I grab it instantly, a question in my eyes.
“It wasn’t him,” she half croaks, and I want to slash his neck all over again.
Instead, I raise my hand to her neck slowly, as if she were a frightened animal.
She still flinches, though.
And I feel an anger that nearly blinds as well as deafens me.
But before I can declare it, before I can burn this entire place to the ground, her touch on my arm drags me back to the moment.
She guides my hands, in control the entire time, to her neck. Those huge, chocolate eyes never leave my face, wordlessly imploring me to let her do this.
I keep my touch feather-light, and her eyes flutter closed.
Submission. No,trust.
Then, the tears begin to roll down her cheeks.
And sound finally, finally returns.
“Let’s get out of here.”
She doesn’t move. Can’t move, I realize, when I see how badly she’s shaking. Dressed in nothing more than a T-shirt and some jeans—myT-shirt and jeans—her bare arms wrap around her torso as if to hold herself together.
The sirens will come soon, so I swoop down to pick her up. If this alarms her, she doesn’t say anything. In fact, by the time I reach the exit, her hands are fisted into my shirt and her head is buried in my chest.
I wish I could drive us back like this, but we need to get to the bunker quickly. She doesn’t move an inch in the time it takes us to get back, and she’s immediately back in my arms the second I kill the engine and open the passenger door.
The bunker lights flicker on as I carry her down the stairs into the lounge, where I place her gently onto the couch, immediately throwing a blanket over her shoulders.
I don’t want to leave, especially when her fingers refuse to detangle from my shirt. But she’s hurt, and I need to get Dante on damage control.
It takes me about ten minutes to gather supplies and make the appropriate calls. But Isabella is still sitting there, staring at the door I left through.
“Belle,”I say softly as I approach.
But she’s in too much shock. I’ve seen it before too many times. There’s nothing to be done until she comes back to me.
