Page 192 of Their Arrangement

I crossed my arms over the shirt. Suddenly very aware of my legs. Bare. Exposed.

“I thought Wolfe?—”

“Wolfe’s out,” he cut in.

Didn’t let me finish.

“Didn’t want to leave you alone. And let’s be honest, he doesn’t trust anyone but me.”

Pause.

“That includes himself.”

His words landed too hard. Like a truth I hadn’t earned yet.

I didn’t reply. Didn’t move. The coffee smelled good. But my stomach turned.

Ibacked into the hallway. Royal didn’t follow. Didn’t push. He just watched.

The bathroom was marble. White. Gold trim. Too clean. Too much. It made me feel dirty just for being in it.

I peeled off Wolfe’s shirt. Every bruise felt like it shifted under the fabric. Like it didn’t want to be seen. But I saw them anyway. Purple. Red. Green already blooming in the corners.

The shower was too hot. The water hit my shoulders like pressure, not relief. But I stepped in anyway. Let it burn. And then?—

I sat down. Right on the marble floor. Back to the wall. Knees to my chest. And I cried. Not quiet. Not gentle. Justwrecked.

Because the last two days had hollowed me out and filled me with the wrong things.

I tried not to picture Wolfe’s face. The way he looked when he lifted me like glass. The way he gripped the back of my head like he was trying not to break me.

I tried not to think about Royal, sitting outside, pretending not to listen. But the truth? This was the first time I’d felt safe in months. And that scared me more than anything else.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I wandered. Every step was tentative. My body still sore. My breath still shallow. The hem of Wolfe’s shirt brushed over bruised skin I hadn’t worked up the nerve to look at yet.

The apartment was spotless. Not in a lived-in way. In a curated way. Like someone had designed it for functionality. For discipline. Not for warmth. No photos. No mementos. No clutter. Everything matte and brushed and steel.

A kitchen island he probably never used.

A desk too clean to belong to someone who lived in his own skin.

One potted plant near the window.

Already dying at the edges.

I moved through the space like it might reject me if I breathed too loudly. Like it was a museum and I didn’t belong near the exhibits.

I trailed my fingers along the edge of the coffee table. Opened a drawer in the hallway. Empty. It wasn’t just neat. It was empty. Like the apartment had been waiting for someone to occupy it properly. Like me.

I closed the drawer. Swallowed the thought. Moved toward the living room. Royal didn’t speak. Didn’t ask questions. Just leaned against the counter like he had nowhere else to be.

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing. He sipped his coffee. Stared at me like I might vanish if he blinked.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said finally.

I blinked. Looked up.

“What were you expecting?”