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She lifted her hand from her cheek and looked at it. There was blood on her fingers. Not much, but enough to make her instinctively press her hand back up against the wound.
Blake pulled out a handkerchief. She reached out to take it, but he dodged her hand and instead dabbed the snowy white linen to her cheek murmuring, “Let me.”
Caroline had never before had anyone to tend to her wounds, minor or otherwise, and she found his touch oddly soothing.
“I should get some water to clean this off,” he said gruffly.
“I'm sure it will be fine. It's a shallow cut.”
He nodded. “For a second I thought he'd scarred you. I would have killed him for that.”
From the floor, Oliver emitted a groan.
Blake stared at Caroline. “If you ask me to, I will kill him.”
“Oh, no, Blake. No. Not like this.”
“What the hell do you mean, not like this?” Oliver snapped.
Caroline looked down. Obviously, he'd regained consciousness. Or perhaps he'd never lost it. She said, “I wouldn't mind, however, if you booted him out of the house.”
Blake nodded. “Gladly.” He picked Oliver up by his collar and the seat of his pants and strode out into the hall. Caroline scurried after him, wincing when Oliver bellowed, “I will summon the magistrate! See if I don't! You'll pay for this!”
“I am the magistrate,” Blake bit out. “And if you trespass on my land again, I'll arrest you myself.” With that, he tossed him out onto the front steps and slammed the door.
He turned around and regarded his wife, who was standing in the hall, staring at him openmouthed. There was still a bit of blood on her cheek, and some on the tips of her fingers. His heart clenched. He knew she hadn't suffered a serious injury, but somehow that didn't matter. Prewitt had hurt her and he hadn't been there to prevent it.
“I'm so sorry,” he said, his voice somewhere between a whisper and a murmur.
She blinked. “But why?”
“I should have been here. I should never have let you see him alone.”
“But you didn't even know he was here.”
“That's not the point. You are my wife. I swore to protect you.”
“Blake,” she said gently, “you can't save the entire world.”
He stepped toward her, knowing his heart was in his eyes, but somehow not minding this weakness. “I know that. I only want to save you.”
“Oh, Blake.”
He gathered her into his arms and pulled her close, heedless of the blood on her cheek. “I won't fail you again,” he vowed.
“You could never fail me.”
He stiffened. “I failed Marabelle.”
“You told me you'd finally accepted that her death wasn't your fault,” she said, wiggling free.
“I did. I do.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “It still haunts me. If you could have seen her…”
“Oh, no,” she gasped. “I didn't know you were there. I didn't know you'd seen her be killed.”
“I didn't,” he said flatly. “I was in bed with a putrid throat. But when she didn't return on schedule, Riverdale and I went out looking for her.”
“I'm so sorry.”
