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My hand stayed there, suspended in space for a few seconds before he took it.
“Shot,” he corrected me, lifting his eyes to mine. “You weren’t shot at. You wereshot.” His eyes landed on my bandaged arm then on the not small stain of blood on the rug.
My eyes followed his. “I’ll pay for it to get cleaned.”
His expression was no longer blank, fury dancing in his gray irises and his jaw working. “I don’t give a fuck about the rug, Calliope,” he snapped, almost yelling. He closed his eyes, took a visible breath, lifted the wine to his mouth and swallowed. He was calming himself down. I was watching it in real time. Because when he opened his eyes, his posture was slightly more relaxed, less of a storm in his expression, mouth no longer forming a grimace.
I’d never seen a man self-regulate himself so quickly.
“Shot,” he said again softly. “You wereshot.”
He stepped forward, his hand ghosting over the bandage but not touching me.
“I’m fine.” I sipped my wine, and though I was sure it was an explosion on the palette, I couldn’t taste anything but terror. I wasn’t entirely lying. The physical injury wasn’t serious. I wouldn’t even scar once a plastic surgeon was done with me, because no way would I let someone else leave a permanent mark on my skin. The small scar above my eye already haunted me daily. I didn’t even know my hand had lifted to the spot until Elliot’s entire attention zeroed in on it.
He didn’t try to argue with that statement, the weight of his attention on that small, almost unnoticeable portion of my skin. The intensity of his gaze made me feel like it would sink me into the floor.
“Something happened to you,” he said with a serious glint to his eye that was unfamiliar. There was something else too. A cold rage that shimmered beneath the surface. That male rage, wanting to avenge a broken or battered woman.
The rapid change in the conversation, the depth of his ability to read me, was unnerving to put it mildly. He was quickly putting pieces together, and I didn’t like it. My eyes darted for the front door, considering sprinting out of it and never laying eyes on him again.
Despite it being the smartest and safest decision, I stayed where I was.
“Something happens to everyone,” I shrugged, knowing lying was not going to work since the idea of lying to Elliot made me want to hurl. Me. The woman who could lie as easily as breathing to whomever, including those who loved her, shared her blood, birthed her. Yet I could not lie to Elliot.
But I could not share that secret with him. With anyone, beyond Jasper. And when I shared it with him, it was used as a weapon, barbed and debilitating. I didn’t let myself think ofit as something that happenedtome. Bringing it out from the depths in which I’d stuffed it meant I’d have to acknowledge it. Acknowledge that I was not strong enough to deal with it. And my strength defined me. I wasn’t ready to have my entire identity unravel. Plus, Elliot was pulling at enough threads already.
“Something happened to you.” He spoke without any of that lightness I’d come to love.
I moved around the living room, clutching my glass, sipping, rolling the wine around in my mouth so I could figure out what to say, how to get out of the conversation without lying. Picking a fight seemed to be a good option, make him so pissed at me that he wouldn’t care about some vague thing that happened to me in the past that he’d somehow sensed even though I was certain I’d hidden all shreds of evidence of the trauma from everyone I loved. Even from myself.
I swallowed another gulp of wine.
Elliot was going to push me. I knew he was. He was well within his rights to. Whether he suspected it or not, it was my past that had bullets flying in his backyard. And yet again, I was faced with the choice of telling him the truth, letting him in further, or doing the smart thing and shutting him out, not exposing him to any of the nastiness that I’d managed to turn my life into, underneath the cashmere, diamonds and expensive skincare.
Telling him my past was not only implicating me in crimes, therefore making him an accessory after the fact, but also putting his life in danger.
Hence why my entire family and pushy brother had been kept in the dark and would continue to be.
The way it should’ve been. But fuck, was it heavy carrying it all myself. I’d been so certain that it was the road I’d chosen, that it didn’t bother me, that I was strong enough to handle it. Butthere in Elliot’s house, with his open and concerned expression, the need to offload on someone who made me feel safe and protected was overwhelming.
My mouth opened.
As if it couldn’t have come at a more perfect time, a banging rattled the door.
Elliot tensed immediately, his posture changing to that defensive, badass exterior from before. I hadn’t known that version of the man lived inside him. I wondered how many more I’d bring out before this thing was done.
“Stay here,” he growled.
I let out a sigh and a silent thanks to whomever was knocking, even if they were brandishing a gun, for saving me from making a stupid decision and telling Elliot everything.
“I doubt the people who were shooting at us would be knocking at the front door.” I pushed up from the chair I’d sunken into out of exhaustion. “And if it is, masculine ire is no match for actual bullets.” My tone was flat, but I was a little worried about someone actually making it past the small-town cop likely scrolling on their phone to finish whatever job they’d started in the woods.
Elliot whirled to glare at me before he opened the door, not holding a weapon of any kind but still looking poised to go to battle.
His shoulders relaxed, then he opened the door wider in order to let another overprotective man in.
Rowan’s eyes were wild as they focused on me. He gave me a once-over, lingering on the bandage on my upper arm. In a couple of long strides, he was across the room, in front of me.