Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
But then my eyes were clocking the blood on her shirt.
On her chin.
Dripping from a nasty fucking gash on her lower lip.
Beyond that, her flawless fucking skin was starting to darken with the shadow of a bruise.
Because someone took their meaty fucking fist and plowed it into her pretty face.
Rage was gasoline in my veins, just waiting for a spark to catch fire.
Until I saw the haunted look in her eyes, the way her lip trembled the second she looked at me.
And just like that, the rage pulled backward, leaving just the concern in its place as I moved in front of her, dropping down to my knees.
“Oh, mouse,” I said, hand lifting gently touching her bruised cheek, knowing it was only going to darken over the next few hours until it was a deep purple and blue. “What happened?” I asked, voice softer than I’d ever heard it before.
She brought that out of me, it seemed.
That lip of hers trembled harder as her eyes went from glistening to overflowing.
“It’s alright,” I said, reaching behind her neck, massaging it.
But then she was slipping closer, resting her forehead on my shoulder as a choked sob escaped her.
I wasn’t good with tears.
Fuck, I wasn’t sure I’d ever been around crying women before. Not up close and personal like this.
I didn’t know what the fuck to do.
But my other arm snaked around her, holding her closer as she cried on my shoulder for a long moment before she was sniffling, trying to pull it together.
“He… he grabbed me,” she said. Then, voice a little stronger, like she knew—likely from experience with the Costas—that I needed details when they were fresh. “He grabbed my arm and whipped me around,” she said, pulling back to try to use her hands to wipe her cheeks before she caught sight of them, dropping them.
Looking down, I saw the little violent red scrapes, the way her skin was pulled back. Likely from skidding across the ground when she tried to break her fall.
“Then he, he slammed me back against a wall and demanded my purse,” she said. “I… I didn’t have a purse,” she said. “I was trying to tell him that, but I couldn’t… I just couldn’t,” she admitted. “But he just kept yelling at me. I tried to walk away, but then… then he shoved me. And I fell and… and he flipped me over. And unzipped my jacket.”
The growl that escaped me had her pausing, her gaze flicking up to mine.
“And I, I tried to scream then,” she said. “And he… hit me,” she said, gesturing toward her face. “Then kept trying to feel around for my money. He… got it. And then… left,” she said, shaking her head as she finished the story.
“What did he look like?” I asked.
“He was tall, not like you,” she said. “But… tall. Light brown hair with, um, the sides were short,” she said, touching the side of her own head with her fingertips. “Skinny. He was really skinny. Wearing a red sweatshirt with some sort of sports logo on it,” she said. “Oh, and he had an eyebrow ring. On this side,” she said, touching her left eyebrow. “And a lip one,” she said, going to touch the side of her mouth before remembering the split, and dropping it. “A hoop,” she said.
“Okay. Alright,” I said. “I need to clean you up, okay?” I asked, trying to keep myself calm. Because all I wanted to do was turn, stride out of the apartment, hit the streets, and find this motherfucker.
But I had to take care of her first.
“Okay,” she said, nodding, but making no move to stand as I did.
Deciding to leave her where she was, I went into the bathroom, finding the plastic container I had jam-packed with medical supply shit because my lifestyle required a lot of that sort of thing, then filled the small container in it with warm water, grabbed a washcloth, and headed back out to her.
She hadn’t moved, like she was frozen, like she was maybe in a bit of shock.
Who the fuck could blame her?
Getting attacked on the fucking street.
I dipped the washcloth in the water, wincing a bit as I looked at her lip. “This isn’t going to feel great,” I warned her, getting a little nod before I started to carefully dab at her lip, then wiping the blood off of her face and neck, before working on her hands.
Finding an individual plastic tube of saline, I used that to clean her lip, then her hands, before drying her with some gauze, and wiping some ointment onto her hands.
I hemmed and hawed at her lip, not wanting her to ingest any of the ointment.
“I’m gonna leave your lip alone for now,” I said. “It’s not bleeding, so if you’re careful, it shouldn’t open back up. No big smiles or straws,” I said, though I doubted she would be smiling for a while after this.