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She shook her head, but her gaze darted away.
Clara never averted her eyes.
Never.
“What is it?” I demanded.
Eyes glued to the floor, she licked her dry lips.
My tone turned hard. “Tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” she answered too quickly. Lying. She was lying.
“It’s not nothing. Where does it hurt?”
I grabbed her arms. She hissed in pain.
“Your arms?”
“I’m fine,” she insisted.
“Take off your shirt,” I ordered.
At that moment, Star came down the stairs, holding a few towels. Hearing what I’d said, she tutted me from behind.
“Tatum, she can’t take off her shirt in front of you,” reprimanded my sister.
I twisted my head over my shoulder. “She damn well can and will. I’m taking care of her.”
Afraid to touch her arms, I took her nape and bent down until we were face-to-face, her gaze on me. “Where are you hurt, Clara? Tell me. You should’ve told my mother. You may need a doctor. Where, Clara, where is it?”
Her eyes attempted to flee again, but I adjusted my glare so that she had nowhere to escape.
She let out a little huff. “There are cuts on my arms from when the windows shattered. We ran to the basement, but the water was rising. We ran back upstairs, but the house was shaking. I was near one of the windows as we rushed around trying to find a safe place to hunker down. I was only wearing a nightie, and glass blew into me as I passed by one of the windows. I covered my face, but my arms and hands got the worst of it.”
My chest cracked open like an abyss. Rage, pure rage, spewed out of me.
Trembling, I took her hands. Her fingers felt brittle and ice cold. I turned them over. Sure enough, small angry red slashes stood out against the perfect peach cream of her skin. My vision tunneled, the edge red with wrath and helplessness.
“Take off your shirt.” My voice dripped with danger.
“No,” my sister intervened. Her hand landed on my back. I shrugged it off. I didn’t want anyone but Clara to touch me.
Ignoring my sister, I demanded, “Take it the fuck off.”
I curved my back until I loomed over her like a monster. My cursing and aggressive posture must have convinced her I wasn’t playing around. Clara’s face paled, but she grabbed the hem of the shirt.
Good girl. I liked it much too much when she followed my orders.
Star gently wrapped a hand around my biceps.
Again, I wanted to shake her off, but she pleaded, “Stop. Tatum, I know you’re upset, but she can’t do that in front of you. I’ll go to the bathroom with her.” She pointed to the couch, where there was a first aid kit. “I’ll take care of her.”
My head was shaking in denial. No, I took care of her. No one but me. I’d failed her once. I could never allow it to happen again.
“You can’t,” Star maintained. “I know you feel some kind of claim over her, but she’s not your wife. She’s not even your fiancée. I’m here. I’ll take care of her.”
“No,” I growled.
