Frowning, Rowan narrowed her focus on the injury. It was discolouring, a faint tinge of green starting to bloom in the mottled purple stain. She touched her fingertips to it, prodding a little to see how much pressure it could take before hurting.
Cold shards of pain sank into her side after a second and she removed her fingers, happy with the result.
Yesterday, just the slightest pressure had made her wince. Today, her body was on its way to healing. That was a good thing. As was the way the split on her lip looked this morning, just a tiny line of red curving from inside her mouth. In fact, apart from the bruises, she appeared okay. Physically. Not at all like a woman someone had tried to blow up.
Her eyes however…
Rowan stared hard into her reflection, her stomach churning. She recognised the shadow there. It was the same haunted darkness that had lingered there for many months after her parents’ murder. It told her she wasn’t okay, wasn’t just nursing the injuries of a brutal full-contact sparring session or competition.
It told her she was dealing with shit beyond the norm.
It made her want to scream. And hurt somebody.
A choking sob welled up in her chest, thick and heavy. She swallowed it down and turned from the mirror, snatching up her clean thong.
She’d sworn never to feel like this again. She’d promised herself. Feeling like this made her weak. She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t.
Shoving her legs into her thong, she yanked the black cotton up over her ass, ignoring the biting ache in her side at her abrupt movement. Pain could be turned off.
Pain could be denied.
She was denying it now.
She’d get dressed, call a cab and go find Aslin at Bondi Beach. Talk to Chris. Ask him if she was being too much of a PITA big sister.
Walk in the sun and find her centre again.
Pulling her shirt on was a problem, one she hissed and winced through. It didn’t help she was down to just a snug black racer-back tank top now that the shirt she’d worn yesterday had been cut from her body in the hospital, and the shirt she’d worn on the flight to Australia was crumpled in the bottom of her bag. She’d buy a tank or tee today at the beach. There would no doubt be plenty of places she could purchase a touristy shirt that would do the job. As for her legs…
Rowan pulled out the only option left in her bag, a pair of lime green satin hotpants she’d packed in case Chris had wanted to hit the dance clubs one night.
The last thing she withdrew from her depleted clothing supply was a pair of knee-high lace-up Chucks. Not exactly beach-combing footwear but better than her cowboy boots, which hadn’t survived the blast unscathed.
She fastened her hair in a ponytail, wiped away the small beads of perspiration the exertion of getting dressed had created from her forehead, scooped up her handbag and walked toward the suite’s door.
And stopped when her fingers wrapped the doorknob.
Stopped.
Stood frozen.
She stared at the polished brass knob, its chilly surface like a branding heat on her palm. Her heart slammed into her throat. Her blood roared in her ears. A million pin-pricks of fire danced over the back of her neck. Her breath grew trapped in her constricting chest.
She stared at the doorknob.
At her fingers squeezing its form.
Stared at it. Willed her hand to turn it. To open it.
And let out a strangled sob as she stumbled back a step.
“Oh, fuck,” she burst out, tears stinging her eyes. “Fuck. What the fuck is—”
Refusing to finish the sentence, she grabbed the doorknob again.
This time she felt the explosion’s force lash at her face, her body. She sucked in a breath, her stare locked on the doorknob, as immobile as she was.
Open the door, woman. Open the door.
She ground her teeth, her knuckles white, her fingertips aching as she drew on every fibre in her body to turn the doorknob.
And her hand refused to move.
“Oh God.” She fell back from the door, her gut a ball of knotting fear, her chest so tight breath refused to come. “Oh God, no.”
She stumbled backward, her feet moving her from the door even as she stared at it through the blurring heat of her tears.
The backs of her knees collided with the edge of the bed and she collapsed onto it, unable to stay on her feet.
Unable to tear her stare from the door. The fucking door and its fucking doorknob.
Oh God, what was wrong with her? What was—
The door opened.
“Rowan?”
Aslin stood in its frame, filling it with his muscled strength, his undeniable power.
She swiped at her eyes, forcing a smile to her lips. “Hey, I was just coming to you guys.”
He stepped into the room, pocketing his keycard as he let the door swing shut behind him. “What’s wrong?”
Rowan shook her head. “Nothing. Just hurt myself doing up my shoes.”