Page 134 of Wicked Brutal

“I just needed you.” His entire posture changes. No questions. No demands. “I don’t want to talk yet.”

“Then we don’t talk.”

“I don’t want you asking me what happened.”

“I won’t.”

“I just—“ My voice cracks.

Ryan reaches for me. Then stops. His hands hover between us. “Can I?”

That nearly destroys me. I nod. His arms close around me. The first breath I take against his chest hurts. The second is worse. By the third, I’m gripping the back of his shirt with both hands and burying my face against him. Ryan holds me. That’s all. One hand at the back of my head. The other around my waist. His mouth pressed against my hair while everything I’ve been holding together since Boston starts coming apart.

“I needed you,” I whisper again.

“I’ve got you.”

“I know.” His hand moves slowly over my back. “I just need to feel like me again.”

Ryan goes still for half a second. Then his mouth brushes my forehead. “You’re always you.”

My eyes close. “Not today.”

His arms tighten around me, and when I shift closer, the fabric of my sweatshirt pulls across my upper arm. Pain shoots through it. I flinch.

His hand stops. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Ally.”

“Don’t.” I try to tuck myself back against him. He doesn’t let me disappear, but he doesn’t grab me either.

His hands settle lightly at my waist. “What hurts?”

“Ryan.”

“I’m not asking what happened yet.” I look up at him. His face has changed. “You told me not to ask. I’m not asking.” His voice stays quiet. “I’m asking what hurts.”

My throat closes. “My arm.”

His eyes drop immediately. “Which one?”

“You’re going to lose your fucking mind.”

Something cold moves through his expression. “Probably. But I’m not going anywhere. I’m not calling anyone. I’m not doing anything. Show me.”

I hesitate. Then slowly pull the sleeve of my sweatshirt up. Ryan stops breathing.

The bruises looked bad upstairs. They’re worse beneath his kitchen lights. Four dark marks curve around the outside of my upper arm, another deeper one beneath them, purple already spreading through the red. Fingerprints. There is no pretending they’re anything else.

Ryan stares. He doesn’t swear. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink for a few seconds. Somehow that scares me more than if he’d punched the wall.

“Say something.”

His jaw moves. “Who?”

I look at him. “You know who.”