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“I can’t leave her in that house,” I tell them. “Do you know how many women die each year because of domestic violence? And what if he turns his rage on his daughter when she gets older? Even if he doesn’t, the impact of seeing him beat her mother will hurt Sophie in the long run. Twenty-five percent of children of abusers go on to follow in their mother’s footsteps. She could one day end up in an abusive relationship if the cycle doesn’t end. I can’t let that happen.”
I pray every day Amelia doesn’t fall into that statistic. She was so young when her father died. I can only hope she doesn’t remember the physical and verbal abuse, and how I was always scared, afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing.
“You should talk to Blake,” Lucas says. “If anyone can help us with Violet and Sophie, it’ll be him. He might know some legal loopholes we can exploit. Or he’ll knows someone who can help us.”
Troy nods, his expression thoughtful. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask him. If we’re talking in hypotheticals, he won’t need to report us.”
“Blake won’t report us for trying to save a woman from her abusive husband,” Lucas points out. “And that has nothing to do with him being my friend.”
“Why wouldn’t he? Doesn’t he try to prevent wife beaters from going to jail?” My experience with defense lawyers hasn’t been bright and sunny. Mine was unable to help me as much as he tried.
“Not Blake. There’re certain types of cases he avoids. Anything that deals with domestic abuse and crimes against kids falls under that category.”
“What about kidnapping?” Because that would definitely fall under the latter category.
“In this case,” Lucas replies, “he would agree the motive justifies the means.”
“Alright. You talk to Blake.” Kellan nods at Lucas. “And we’ll keep an eye on Violet. If things turn dangerous for her again, we’ll get her and Sophie out, chief of police be fucked.”
After our friends leave following dinner, Troy takes Bailey and Butterscotch out to do their business.
And I make a decision.
Two weeks. Two weeks of hiding Violet. Two weeks of coming up with excuse after excuse of why I couldn’t be with Troy. Two weeks of my body yearning for his touch.
Troy opens the back door and lets the dogs into the house.
“You know that Jacuzzi in your bathroom?” I say nonchalantly. He nods, hope flickering devilishly in his eyes. “I was thinking of soaking in it.” I take a step closer to him and run my fingers down his chest. “And I wouldn’t mind company. If that’s okay with you.” Plus, the heat will feel amazing on my sore muscles.
“Hell yes,” he mutters and pulls me in for a slow, hungry kiss. And I return each stroke of his tongue with a plead for so much more.
He pulls away as my legs begin to disintegrate from the heat of the kiss. “Are you sure about this? You were pretty beat up last night.”
“I’m positive this is what I want.” You’re what I want. “But if this isn’t something you—”
He slams his mouth against mine. And the kiss…the kiss leaves my body vibrating with need. The need to have him. To be with him. To touch him.
He threads his fingers with mine, tells the dogs to stay downstairs, and leads me upstairs to his bathroom. He turns the water on in the Jacuzzi and walks over to give me another powerful kiss. His fingers slip under the hem of my T-shirt, and he gently traces up my sides, taking care to not irritate the bruises there.
The skin under his T-shirt is deliciously hot to my touch, his hard ab muscles belying the strength and power that’s all Troy. Power filled with kindness and heart. God, how I want him.
He removes his T-shirt and tosses it to the floor. I do the same with my T-shirt, and Troy’s eyes heat.
I cup my hand on his hard length, which strains beneath the fabric of his jeans. Troy groans. I grin.
He reaches around and unhooks the back of my bra. I unzip his jeans and slip my hand into the opening.
“Jesus, Jess.” The words slide out on an erotic hiss. “You’re going to kill me before we even make it to the Jacuzzi.”
“Not exactly my plan. But I’ve missed you.” With him so close, my hands on his skin and his on mine, I’m unraveling one thread at a time. I moan.
Troy turns off the water, and we strip out of the rest of our clothing. His heated gaze pours over my body like hot syrup, coating every part of me—the unblemished skin and the scars.
“Christ, you’re beautiful, Jess.” He strokes his thumb over my peaked nipple, and a needy whimper falls from my parted lips.
He steps into the tub of bubbling water and holds out his hand to me. I climb in, and we sink into the heat, with Troy behind me. I lean back between his legs, his hard length pressed between the curve of my butt cheeks.
The water bubbles and caresses my bruised body, kissing it better. I groan, feeling more human for the first time in the past twenty-four hours.
