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Something’s wrong.
I feel it.
My stomach knots and nausea rocks.
My heart skips a beat when my phone vibrates in my hand, but quickly drops when it’s Sam’s name flashing at me.
“Sam, what’s wrong?”
“Is Jake home yet?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so.” I jump out of bed and down the hall. All the lights are off. His bed hasn’t been slept in. “No,” I confirm.
“Fuck,” he grits.
My knees lock.
I hate this.
“Sam, what is going on?”
The front door unlocks. The set of broad shoulders appears, but he doesn’t glance my way. Instead, he storms through the house and into the kitchen.
“He’s here.”
“Claire,” Sam says before I end the call. “You need to talk to him, honey.”
No shit.
What am I about to walk into?
For now. I promise.
I have a horrible feelingfor nowjust ran out.
I don’t reply. I simply end the call and take the stairs as fast as my legs can move. A light glows into the hallway from his office, illuminating his memory lane in shadows.
The door creaks when I push it open, uncovering a broken man. Head fallen, heavy rounded shoulders strain against his shirt as he leans on his fists against the table.
Bloody fists.
As if sensing me, his muscles tighten, the veins in his forearms protruding from the strain.
“Jake?” I try to say, but it comes out in a cry.
Just the sight of him makes my throat sting.
Slowly, he turns, and my breath leaves my lungs and forgets to come back.
His white shirt is stained red, knuckles cut, and probably broken. His brows are drawn tight. The heated stare I’m used to is nothing but ice as it dances across my skin.
When my brain finally catches up, I rush to him, frantically searching for the source of the blood.
“Where are you hurt?”
Hand on the back of my head, he forces me to look at him. “It’s not mine.”
What have you done?
