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“Fuckno.God, woman, put your claws away for five minutes. I was telling you it’s safe to open up.”
That’s when it registers.
The way she’s so flustered, skin red like she’s just been in a scrap.
The bruises on her arms.
Fresh, reddish-purple, and still forming in the shape of someone’s grubby goddamned fingers. The points where those fingers dug in the darkest.
I’ve seen it plenty of times on domestic calls.
Instant rage storms through me and the world recedes into a humming white haze.
“Motherfucker,” I clip, reaching for her. “Who did this? Who hurt you?”
Ophelia’s eyes widen.
She stares at me, then glances away, twisting to look down at her upper arms.
“Oh, I hardly noticed. Honestly, it looks worse than it really is...”
Bull.
I don’t know a damn thing yet except for the fact that the man who grabbed her isdead.
I’m not thinking when I drop down on one knee in front of her right there on the porch while she stands in the doorway.
“Grant? What are youdoing?”
“Let me look. I need to see the damage,” I growl, brushing my fingers lightly over the soft skin of her forearm. The light shines behind her head, turning her honey hair into a gold halo.
“S-sure,” she relents, letting me do my thing.
As worked up and furious as I am, touching Ophelia is a special kind of torture.
I keep it careful, keep it light, gently grasping her forearm and turning it so I can get a good look at the bruises.
“He grabbed you pretty hard, but he didn’t break the skin. He hurt you anywhere else?”
“My neck feels a little sore,” she answers, rubbing the back of it. There’s something odd in her voice. “He shook me pretty rough, too. Snapped my head around a bit.”
Okay, shit.
Now, he’s a dead man and dismembered.
“He’ll be lucky I don’t hang him from the town square statue by his ballsack when I find him,” I growl, standing and giving her a gentle nudge. “Let’s have a look around and you can tell me what happened.”
She gives me another weird look and takes a hesitant step backward into the house.
I follow, taking a quick glance around.
All my police instincts fire, quick and assessing, searching for details she might’ve missed in the initial panic.
The old house hasn’t changed much from what I remember, all lush oversized furniture that doesn’t quite match, clearly chosen more for its marshmallow comfort than for showroom style.
“You guys still keep the first aid kit in the bathroom?” I ask.
“...y-yeah.”
