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“Just a minute.” God, I need to clean myself up… I need to—
“Mia?” His eyes catch mine in the mirror. “What the fuck?”
“I-I couldn’t… I had to…”
“Fuck,” he rasps, coming over to me and pulling me around. “You’re hurt.” His eyes flick to the knife, the muscles in his jaw popping.
“I had to…” I’m weary, exhaustion hitting me hard. “I couldn’t wear it for a second longer.”
Bexley leans around me and grabs a towel, running it under the faucet. Then he presses it to my chest, cleaning up my jagged handiwork. “Shit, baby, this will scar.”
“Better a scar than a brand,” I murmur, my eyes clenching in agony as he carefully wipes the blood away.
“You didn’t say anything.”
“Because it wasn’t something I planned until I knew.”
Skin clean, Bexley places the towel down and ghosts his thumb over my gaping flesh. “You might need stitches.”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’ll heal. Just clean it and put a dressing on it.”
“I’ll need to find a first aid kit.” He runs a hand down his face, his features hardened.
I nod. “I’ll wait.”
Cupping the back of my neck, Bexley leans in and kisses me. “I’m sorry, Mia. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Then he slips out of the room and I’m alone once more.
22
Bexley
Iclose Mia's bedroom door behind me and suck in a shuddering breath. The image of her bloody, cut-up chest is burned into the back of my eyes.
My heart pounds and my fists clench.
That fucking cunt is doing this and he's not even here.
My need to hurt him, my need to watch his blood seep out of his skin is becoming harder and harder to ignore. I want to put a gun to his fucking head and torture him, just like his memory is torturing my girl.
I give myself five seconds before I push from the door and make my way down to the kitchen where there's a first aid kit.
Mulligan is in the kitchen preparing our dinner at the stove when I drag open the cupboard door and drop the box onto the counter.
"Is everything okay, Mr. Easton?" he asks, concern pulling his brows together.
"Y-yes," I force out through gritted teeth as the mess Mia has made of her chest fills my mind again.
I get it. I totally get it. There have been plenty of times I've wanted to do something similar. But carving the brand from my chest won't get me out of any of this. Sadly, it runs through my blood. A brand means nothing, really.
"Mia's just cut her finger. Nothing to worry about."
Making sure I have everything I need, I leave him to whatever he's preparing for dinner and head back up.
I invite myself back into her room and find her sitting in the middle of her bed, her face pale, the tired circles around her eyes dark and her hair hanging limply around her shoulders. She looks like a ghost of her former self, and I hate it.
I want her sparkle, her zest for life, her need to fight back.
