Page 25

Reign

M y hand curls around Angelique’s as I lead her out of the alley and toward the restaurant.

She’s too battered to go back in there, and I don’t want any of the staff to make her uncomfortable when they stare.

Not to mention, I’m not in the mood to sit down at a table and eat dinner across from her after the kiss we just shared.

I knew the night would likely spiral from the moment she downed her first glass of wine but saving her from a group of drunk bastards in an alleyway and then kissing her on top of that was unexpected.

Gavin, our server from the restaurant, meets us outside with our food bagged to-go. He scans Angelique’s red, swollen cheek, along with the cuts on her neck, and his eyes bulge before he turns to look at me.

“Is everything all right, sir?” he asks, glancing at her once more.

“There was a group of men around this area only moments ago that assaulted Ms. Sinclair here. Please send any exterior camera footage you have of the men to the local police station and inform them they’re likely at a local hospital.”

His eyes go wide again. “Oh, and let them know that two of the men have been sprayed by Farbgel Spray so it should be easy to identify them,” I add, sliding him a five-hundred pound tip.

He nods and rushes back inside as I lead Angelique to my car, helping her climb in and buckling her seat belt. My hand intentionally brushes her arm, and when she doesn’t flinch away, I nearly groan from the relief.

She takes the bag from me and rests it on her lap while I reach into my pocket and pull out the money that she tossed on the table back in the restaurant.

“Don’t insult me by paying on our date.” I drop the notes into her lap. “In fact, don’t even bring your wallet next time.”

“So, this wasn’t part of the field trip?” she asks, eyes dropping back to my lips, reminding me of how she tasted in that alley.

I want to take her home and strip her down and worship her until she forgets every man who’s ever touched her wrong.

I want all of her—but not like this. Not yet.

So instead of answering, I close the passenger side door and round the car, sliding into the driver’s side bringing the engine to life and pulling out onto the road, driving us back to the house.

I let the low thrum of music from my radio fill the silence between us as I drive, my mind too consumed by thoughts of the alley. ‘ I’d rather die than let another man take advantage of my body’ , she’d said.

Another.

The times that she’d called me, the texts that she’d sent.

Were any of those her attempts at asking for my help?

The thought sinks its claws in deep, and I grip the steering wheel hard enough that my knuckles go bone-white the rest of the drive to the estate grounds.

I was bitter about her leaving me, but it was really me who left her in the end.

I park the car just outside of the guesthouse and help Angelique climb out, taking the food from her lap.

“Do you want me to reheat your plate for you?” I ask as we step inside, watching as she slips her heels off.

“I’ll eat it tomorrow,” she murmurs, bending down to pick them up. “I should’ve listened to you about taking it easy on the drinking. Wine always makes me sleepy.”

I nod. “Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Reign,” she mumbles.

Once Angelique disappears down the hall, I sit at the kitchen island eating my reheated dinner while thinking about the bastards from the alley.

I send a quick email to the restaurant to make sure they’ve filed the report with the police and set my phone down while I wait for a reply.

If I ever see them again, I’ll fucking kill them with my bare hands for hurting her.

After I clean up my plate, I take a long shower and then make my way to my bedroom while drying my hair with a small towel, but I pause when I find Angelique standing next to my bed, facing me, her eyes unfocused.

“Sleepwalking, again,” I mutter, letting my eyes drift over her body as I lean against my door frame, working the towel through my damp hair. “But why my room, Angel?”

My eyes catch on the angry red marks still slashed across her throat from tonight’s attack—but then something worse punches the air out of my lungs. My brows knit, and the towel slips from my hand, forgotten as I step toward her, heart slamming against my ribs.

I reach out slowly, careful not to startle her awake, my fingers wrapping gently around her wrist and turning it over.

Cuts, dozens of them, litter her arm from her wrist all the way up, disappearing under the sleeve of her shirt.

Some thin and faded like pale threads. Others fresh—raw and red, scabbing over in jagged lines.

She’s been cutting herself?

No. No.

My jaw clenches hard, a bitter taste crawling up the back of my throat. I stare at her arm and a roar of guilt swells in my chest so loud it nearly drowns out my thoughts.

Where the hell was I?

How many of these marks were carved into her because I wasn’t there to help her?

I lift her arm higher, bringing her wrist to my lips and press a gentle kiss just above the freshest cut, like my mouth alone could undo the pain it took to make it.

“Angel,” I whisper, even though I know she can’t hear me like this.

But maybe some part of her does. Maybe that part is why she ended up in my room tonight instead of her own. Maybe she came here because even in her sleep, her subconscious knows I’ll keep her safe. Even if it’s from herself.

I reach for her other hand and gently guide her to my bed, pulling the covers down and helping her lie against the pillows. She exhales softly as I tuck the blanket around her and I’m careful not to jostle the mattress too much as I slowly ease under the covers behind her.

Her body is turned away from me, curled in tight, like she’s protecting herself even in sleep.

I fit myself to her back, leaving just a whisper of space between us, but I want to hold her.

God, I want to wrap my arm around her waist, press my hand to her stomach, let her feel that I’m here, and that she’s safe.

But I won’t touch her, not while she’s asleep. Instead, I choose to lie there, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body on mine and the rise and fall of her breathing. My eyes trace the shadows on the ceiling, heart still thundering from what I saw on her wrist.

I should have known. I should have fucking known.

But I’ve been too wrapped up in my own pain to see hers.

Too selfish. Too angry. But not anymore.

I don’t care what it takes—therapy, patience, time, blood—I’ll give it.

I’ll give her everything I’ve got left. And if she doesn’t have the strength to keep going some days, then I’ll carry her.

Crawl into her darkness and drag her out, even if it tears me apart.

I whisper into the quiet, my lips close enough that the words kiss her hair.

“You’re not alone anymore, Angelique. Never again.”