Wrong (A Bad Boy Romance)(100)

“We weren’t supposed to kill you,” he says, almost as if he didn’t just get the shit pounded out of him. “Next time, though…”

The bruise growing on his jaw means it should be hard for me to take him seriously, but his words send chills down my back. They’re serious about killing Cain. My own father is dead serious about killing the man I’ve—

That thought breaks off, because I don’t know how to finish it. The man I’ve what? Chosen to sleep with? Taken as a lover? Been thinking about marrying, even though it is, as Cain said, the shittiest idea in the history of shitty ideas?

Except maybe it’s not. Cain takes a sharp step toward the two men, and they depart, trying to act like they’re not scared of him. Two against one, and still they’re slinking away to lick their wounds. I glare in their direction, not that it helps anything. I wish I could set their stupid suits on fire with my eyeballs.

The door falls shut behind them, and I turn to Cain. “Are you okay?”

He knuckles his lip where it’s bleeding again. The cut from last night has opened up again, wider, and there’s a trail of blood running down his chin. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

From the way he rolls his shoulder, wincing, I think maybe he’s not, but I’m not going to argue with him. “Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

I take his arm, though he doesn’t really need my support—he’s hurt but he’s not exactly off his feet—and he directs me to the bathroom. The last few steps, he’s a little unsteady, and I latch my arm around his waist, holding on to him. He takes a sharp breath, and I wonder if he’s been hit in the ribs or something.

“Sit,” I tell him, pointing to the closed toilet lid.

“Jess—”

“Sit.”

He sits. I start to unbutton his shirt, peeling it gently off him.

It looks like they beat him more along the torso than on his face. That makes sense if maybe they didn’t want to advertise the fact they’d beaten the shit out of him. I wonder if that order came from my father: “Not the face. Nothing that will show.” It’s the kind of thing he used to think about when he was smacking Mom around.

I feel my lips tightening against my teeth and force myself to focus on the present. Cain needs me. I ease the shirt down from his shoulders and take a good look at his body. I eye him with clinical detachment—it’s good practice for my future career, if nothing else. Disengage the emotion, the fear for him. Not to mention the desire. Just evaluate the injuries.

He’s got some heavy bruising along his ribs, right where my hand went when I went to grab him, trying to steady him as we walked into the bathroom. I touch the area again, lightly, and he winces.

“Broken rib?” I ask. My brain starts to race through all the things a broken rib could lead to. I redirect it to how a broken rib needs to be treated, since I’m pretty sure I’d know by now if he had a punctured lung.

“I don’t think so. They got me pretty hard there though.”

“Dammit.” So much for clinical detachment. I just can’t hold on to it. I clench my teeth and go rooting through the medicine cabinet. “This is my fault.”

“How is it your fault, Jess? I’m the one who insisted we go out to that restaurant. I’m the one who hit fucking Carmine in his fucking face.” He hesitates, rolling his shoulder again. When he speaks again it’s in an obstinate mutter. “I’d do it again, too.”

“Right.” I’ve got some alcohol and cotton balls, and I’m ready to clean his face. “Hold still. This is going to sting.”

But when I head for his cut lip with the cotton ball, he grabs my wrist. “Jess. It’s fine. I don’t need doctoring.”

“You’re a mess, Cain.”

“Yeah. I’ve been a mess before, and I’ll be a mess again. I’ll get over it.”

“But he’s going to expect you to fight…” I stop. Sobs are rushing up my throat, and it’s all I can do to swallow them before they burst out. “Cain. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t let him keep hurting you.”

His hand is firm on my wrist but not harsh. Now his fingers loosen a bit; he strokes the inside of my wrist with his thumb. “It’s my job to get hurt. Always has been.”

“In the cage, maybe, but not…” I stop again. I’m not sure what I’m trying to say to him. I just know I hate this—where we are, how we got here, and the certainty that there’s no real way out of it. “God. I hate him for what he’s done to you. I hate him for what he’s done to me. I hate him, Cain!” Everything inside me is breaking apart. I want to fly at Cain, pummel him with my fists until he understands. I can’t do that. He’s hurt. And it’s my father who’s hurt him.