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I roll my eyes. “Okay, fine. Yes, it’s weird, and I’m freaked out, but what am I supposed to do?”
“Uh, how about file for a protective order?”
“And how do I do that without bringing Tristan into it?”
She quiets, but I feel no satisfaction at winning this terrible debate.
“He just stood there, Kim,” I say quietly. “Just took it. Like he’d done it before.”
Kim looks away, clenching her jaw. “I know. Every time I’d visit…”
When she meets my gaze again, tears fill her eyes. “Is this going to be the rest of his life? Is this all he has to look forward to?”
I want to say no. I want a lot of things that aren’t true.
“I’ll go check on him,” I say softly.
“It’s not fair,” she whispers, searching my eyes. “It should be me.”
I bite my lip to control a sudden rush of anger. I love her, but yes. It should be. It should be her back etched with scars, her eyes empty and haunted, her nightmares torturing her in the dark. It should be her that can’t get a job or a break or a moment of relief, but gets plenty of open abuse at every turn. It should be her life that ended before it began, her body and soul writhing in a hell she can’t escape.
I still think they need to tell the truth, but it’s not my truth to tell.
“I’ll get ice,” I say, moving toward the kitchen.
I grab a towel and bag of vegetables from the freezer before making my way to the bathroom. I’m not surprised when the voice inside tells me to go away.
“You know I can get through the lock,” I call back.
“It’s not locked,” he returns.
I take that as a rude invitation to enter. His glare makes it clear it wasn’t. He returns his attention to the mirror and continues glowering at his own reflection. His shirt is in a heap on the floor, and I pull in a breath at the welt on his chest from Pierce’s shoe.
“Kim’s right. At least ice your eye so you don’t end up with a visible bruise.”
His fingers tighten around the edge of the counter as he leans in, every muscle in his upper body taught and exposed.
“Do you want to have to explain your injuries to your new boss?” I ask, changing tactics.
Maybe it works when he exhales roughly.
“Fine,” he mutters, grabbing the improvised icepack from my hand. He holds it to the side of his face, and I cringe on his behalf.
This is your fault.
It’s not.
Is it?
“You shouldn’t have done that,” I say.
“Done what?”
“Stood up to Pierce. Let him hurt you.”
“I should’ve let him hurtyou? Now do you believe me about him? I know monsters when I see them, Iz. Trust me.”
My heart pinches at the implication when his dark eyes meet mine. How many has he faced? How manywouldhe face for me? I know the answer and I hate it.
