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“I’m happy you’re here,” Sutton says. “Sleep tight, sweetheart.”
She disappears into her room and Kyra meets my eyes, her nervous grip on my hand loosening. For a second I fear she’s letting me go, but her hand just relaxes into a more comfortable hold, keeping us together.
My chest warms as I lead her around a tour of the apartment. She takes in the huge open-plan living area, the homey U couch and light, warm colors inviting.
She manages to hold herself back from stroking the soft velvet throw pillows but stops in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at the sparkling view of New York City.
“It’s incredible,” she says, but I don’t even look, not daring to tear my eyes from her.
Eventually she lets me show her the kitchen, dining area, and finally, her new room.
“I’m sure Sutton will let you decorate it, if you’d like,” I say.
She walks across the plush carpet, admiring the massive bed. She’ll probably faint at the sight of the bath tub and ridiculous walk-in closet. I helped Sutton design this place, and one thing she loves is space.
I join her by the side of the bed, putting the box down, straightening to take in her gorgeous face. The tips of my fingers map the edges of her bruise, and my thoughts sober. She closes her eyes and breathes deep when my palm settles around her neck.
A perfect moment passes between us and her dark lashes flutter open to show me those glistening golden-brown eyes that I could spend every morning waking up to.
“You’re going to tell me what happened, Kyra,” I say. “I’ll wait till you’re ready, if that’s what you need. But I need that name.”
A tortured look crosses her face and she switches to worrying that plump bottom lip.
“It’s late, I should go,” I say, despite wanting to do the opposite. My hand falls from her face. “Sweet dreams.”
Her fingers clutch my wrist, halting my retreat.
“Rebecca,” she says.
I still. “Who is she to you?”
“My mother.”
“Your mother hit you?” I snap.
Kyra doesn’t crumble at my tone, but she looks away, deep in thought.
“I deserved it,” she admits.
“Explain.”
“My parents came home early and my mother walked in on my boyfriend and I.”
She has a boyfriend?
“Well, my ex, now.”
My heart rate simmers some.
“Go on,” I nudge.
She pauses, gathering her words. “Tyler has been trying to…get physical…for months now. We were alone in the house, and he saw an opportunity.”
Her hand still cradles my wrist, but her words have my fingers gripping her arm in return, chaining us together. I mean it as a supportive gesture, but I’m itching to play with the names she’s gifted me, and I can’t stop that rage from seeping out.
“He had the top of my dress down around my waist and the skirt hiked up. When I tried to push him off me, he pulled me on top of him and pinned my thighs.”
Her free hand runs across the material atop her leg, and I just know the fucker’s left bruises. I want to see them.
