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“It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, it fucking matters, angel,” he dangerously purred. “And you’re going to tell me right now.”
“I have to go. I can’t be late,” I said, ripping my face free of his grasp and turning.
His hand slammed down on my shoulder, and my knees buckled from the pain. I sagged toward the floor, nearly hitting my knees, but he wrapped an arm around me, pulling me into his side.
I whimpered, the pain in my shoulder slicing through me, every brush of the shirt making it throb worse.
All the restrained anger he boiled with bowed down to concern. “All right now, angel. It’s okay. I got you. Come on. Let’s go.”
“I can’t,” I said even as I melted into his side.
“You didn’t say it.”
“What?”
“You didn’t tell me you wanted me to go.”
“I want you to go,” I blubbered.
“Liar.” He accused, swinging me up in his arms and cradling me against his chest.
“You can’t be here,” I stressed, suddenly remembering Oskar, eyes searching the faces around us. “Put me down.”
“I’m gonna be wherever you are, angel, and no one is going to stop me.”
“He will.” I worried, beginning to shake.
He said nothing, just tightened his hold. This time I couldn’t keep in the hiss.
“When I find out who did this to you…” he swore, letting the threat trail away as he carried me and my suitcase through the airport, completely ignoring the way people stared.
“You’re not like him,” I refuted, shaking my head. “You’re nothing like him.”
“Here,” he said, pushing into a family-style bathroom and throwing the lock. Abandoning my suitcase in front of the door, he crossed to gently set me on the counter between two sinks.
He left me briefly, backtracking to the door to make sure the lock was in place. His eyes swept me from head to toe, lingering on the massive bruise around my swollen eye.
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Lars Eriksson,” he intoned, taking a step closer. “You take off your shirt and show me where you’re hurt, or I’ll rip it off your body.”
I didn’t want him to see. It would only hurt him. I could withstand any pain if it meant he didn’t have to. When I stayed mutinously silent, he came closer, moving like a predator marking his prey.
I lifted my chin, staring at him, refusing to back down.
He grabbed the neckline of my shirt, and using two hands, he ripped it right down the center. My injuries beneath it hurt, but not as much as they hurt when he peeled the pieces of fabric away and I saw the look on his face.
A strangled sound filled the bathroom. His eyes glimmered with hurt. His lips opened, then closed, and he tugged on his hair. Both hands shot out, and I braced for impact, but they stopped before making contact to hover over the worst of the bruises… and there were many.
“Oh, baby,” he groaned, leaning in to look at my black-and-blue ribs. “You were bleeding,” he said, the tip of his finger grazing the puncture wound the corner of Rush’s nightstand made beneath my ribcage. “You were bleeding, and you didn’t call me.”
I opened my mouth to tell him it wasn’t his problem, but his eyes flashed up, so dark and portentous the words died on my lips.
He moaned, eyes catching on the bite, the spot on my collarbone that looked like fresh ground meat. I hoped it wasn’t bleeding again, but it felt sort of sticky and wet.
