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“Sophia, stop!” I barked, sending the door popping on its hinges.
A baseball bat whizzed past my face, with such fervor that a puff of wind moved my hair. One inch to the left and she would have shattered my skull.
JesusChrist.
Staying low, I lunged forward, tackling little miss Rhonda Rousey at the waist.
Sophia stumbled backward, falling to the floor. The bat tumbled from her hands.
I flipped her onto her stomach while simultaneously pulling her wrists over her head. Then I straddled her ass. I’m mildly embarrassed to admit that I was out of breath by that point. Physical altercations are always more exhausting when you don’t expect them.
She whimpered in pain.
I leaned down, pressing my entire body weight against her back. “I didn’t want to have to do this, Miss Banks.”
“What? Rape me?” she hissed back.
I was shocked by her response. So shocked that I immediately released my hold on her wrists and stepped off of her.
I’d been called many things in my life. Asshole, murderer, the devil himself. But never a rapist. The fact that her immediate thought was that I would rape her for information confirmed just how dark her life in Black Cell had been.
Chest heaving, she rolled onto her back and began massaging her wrists. I cringed at the red marks I’d put on them. She glowered up at me with pure, vile hatred in her eyes. Sophia knew she was defeated, yet she remained defiant.
Looking back, I realize it was that—that single moment—when I fell in love with Sophia Banks.
I watched as her emotions swung from one end of the spectrum to the other in a matter of seconds. Without warning, her stubborn expression softened and her chin began to quiver. She covered her face with her hands and began sobbing. I knew from experience she was suffering an adrenaline crash.
Because of me. Because I’d scared her.
Dammit.
I also knew from experience that I was the worst at dealing with strong displays of emotions. I’d been told this, in no uncertain terms, by many of my former lovers.
Women made me uncomfortable to begin with, but a crying woman was borderline insufferable. I was like a child in their presence, knowing what I should do (comfort the crying female), but having no idea how to do it. Something about a woman’s tears turned me into Usain Bolt. I’d run every time, unable to deal with a fluid concept like emotions.
My gut twisted as I stared down at her.
Sophia Banks wasn’t the first woman I’d scared, but she was the first to make me desperate to dry the tears.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I said quietly.
“You just did.”
“I’m—I’m ...”
Sorry?What thehell,Justin? Are you going toapologizeto a target? No.
Instead of delivering my balls to her on a silver platter, I knelt down and extended my hand. “I’m going to touch you to help you up, okay?”
She swatted away my advance while calling me names I hadn’t heard since high school. I had to refrain from helping as she shakily pushed herself off the floor.
Instead of running, Sophia squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and confronted me head-on with mascara tears running down her cheeks. Her nose was red, her cheeks flushed. I had a strong urge to lift her off her feet and wrap her in my arms.
“How did you find me?” she demanded.
“I followed you home last night,” I said, a partial lie. “And stop looking at my scar.”
She blinked, looked away, then refocused on my eyes. “You followed me home?”
