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As I attempt to move to the dresser, Quinn halts my movements by wrapping a hand around my waist and ensnaring me onto his lap.
“Stop,” he says, inches from my face, his breath fanning my cheeks. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
After we left the gallery, I pretty much remained mute, patting Lucky, lost in my own world. I grunted out bits and pieces of what happened to Quinn so he had an idea of what happened. But I had to be careful because I knew Justin was listening.
We found a vet who took one look at Lucky and confirmed that his front paw was broken by force. He would need to operate and estimated Lucky would be at the clinic for two days after the surgery to recover.
Two fucking days meant Quinn and I were stuck here with my dad and Phil biting at our heels.
I cannot process the thought that my father was breathing the same air as me without feeling sick to my stomach. But what’s worse is that he had the chance to end this, all of it, and catch me unawares, but he didn’t.
Instead, he opted to toy with me, alerting me to the fact that he’s onto me and can strike at any time.
Leaving Lucky’s collar was his way of playing with me, sending a message as such, and that message being that he’s always two steps ahead of me. He’ll always catch up to me no matter how far I run. He’ll hurt and destroy no matter whom I bring into my life—Hank, Tabitha, Tristan, Quinn, Lucky.
And I can’t live with that on my conscience.
Sitting sidesaddle on Quinn’s lap, I wrap my arms around his taut neck. “It would be so much safer and easier for you if I left.”
Quinn laughs in response, which is not the reaction I was expecting.
“I mean it.”
Quinn nods, his messy hair slipping into his eyes. “I know.”
“And you’re laughing?”
“It’s just funny that you think that’s even an option,” he replies as he reaches for a roll of gauze sitting on the nightstand.
He uncoils my injured hand from around his neck and unties the bloodied mess of his gray shirt off my palm, which acted as a makeshift bandage.
As I watch his gentle fingers lightly pass over the cut to examine the damage, I ask, “What do you mean?”
But I know exactly what he means because he’s right. Leaving Quinn will hurt me more than being captured by my dad.
“What do you expect me to do?” I question softly, sagging in defeat. “Lucky will be at the vet for at least two days. I can’t just stay here. We’re sitting ducks, and it’s only a matter of time until my dad will get sick of waiting, and he’ll hurt everyone I love.”
“Hey,” Quinn soothes, lifting my chin with his fingertips. “I won’t let him hurt you ever again, okay?”
“You can’t promise me that. And I don’t want you to. This isn’t your problem. It’s mine.”
Quinn sighs, the frustration showing in his clenched jaw. We’re silent for a few moments, and I watch as Quinn tends to my wound with such care.
His sharp voice breaks the hypnotic stillness of his gentle fingers tending to my wound. “Your problems aremyproblems. I wish you’d get that.”
I appreciate his chivalry, but how can I live with myself if anything happens to him? Today was the wake-up call I needed.
“How do you expect me to just sit by and allow you to endanger yourself, Quinn? I can’t.”
“I’m a big boy. I know what I’m doing,” he retorts. He rubs a white ointment into my palm, then unravels the length of gauze around my hand.
“I’m sick of running. It doesn’t matter where we go. My dad will always find me.”
I’m barely holding back my tears now as the reality of the situation sets in.
Quinn nods, his eyes focused on treating my injured hand. “I know you are. And so am I.”
“You are?” I ask, wiping away a rogue tear that has escaped the corner of my eye.
