He leans down. “Oh. That’s going to bruise.” He frowns.
I wave a hand as if it’s no big deal. “Dude. I bruise all the time. I’ve been taking this boxing class, and as you can tell, I’m not very good at it.” I barely keep myself from looking at the door and try to appear relaxed.
He winces. “I don’t want your dad to think I hit you.”
What’s the alternative? He shoots me and dumps my body in the backyard?
I slap his arm as playfully as I can, wondering how close my bodyguards are right now. They’re probably in the damn car. “I don’t know about you, Cal, but I don’t tell my father anything. I’m a grown-ass woman, and he doesn’t need to know my business.”
His expression relaxes. “Good point. I don’t tell my brother or mom anything, either. They’re all into responsibility and have no idea what it takes to be the chief influencer.”
“Totally agree.” I wonder if his family knows about his temper problem.
He’s taller than I thought as he towers over me. Odd that I think of the way Thorn is even taller, yet I feel safe in the shadow he casts. I’m nowhere near safe right now.
“What are we going to do about the wedding?” Cal asks.
I pause, not sure how to play him. “I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I think we should get married.” He’s frowning again.
I purse my lips as if not sure what to do. “You really think the thing with Thorn is Stockholm syndrome?”
“Yes,” Cal says instantly.
I look down at my feet and see a lump forming on my ankle. Did I hit the coffee table on my flight across the room? “Maybe I should see a shrink about the Thorn problem?”
“Yes.” Cal pats my shoulder and nods wisely. “Why don’t you make a few appointments, and in the meantime, we can attend the Silicon Shadows and Secrets Ball together? My brother will see us together and give up his campaign for you. Then we can plan the wedding?”
I believe I already have a date to that ball. Even so, I continue to look sad and confused. “I’ll meet you there. It’s a nice start, and the platform-user numbers will go through the roof for the two of us.” Might as well appeal to his business side, if he has one. Trying to walk normally and not limp, I reach for my purse on the end of the sofa. “Thank you for dinner. That was truly delicious.”
“Any time.” He walks me to the door and opens it. “I’ll see you again.”
I nod and smile, turning to walk sedately toward my town car. The security guys step out, and I manage to wait until I’m safely inside before I burst into tears.
THIRTY-THREE
Alana
My face feels like it’s twice the normal size when I walk into my darkened apartment and drop my purse before kicking off my shoes and limping into my bedroom.
The atmosphere is tense.
Sighing, I flick on the light to see Thorn lounging on his back on my bed, his feet bare and his arms beneath his head. His jacket is tossed over my chair and his sleeves are rolled up. He seems to be sleeping but opens his eyelids and turns his head to look at me.
I sigh. “I’m not up to you tonight.”
His soft gaze hardens as he swings his legs over and stands, zeroing in on my blazing face. “What happened?”
Tears gather in my eyes. “Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Sokolov hit you?” His voice is so low and controlled, it reduces the heat in the room.
I don’t ask how he knows where I’ve been. He always knows. “We had a scuffle.”
“Is he bruised?”
I shake my head and a tear falls. Angrily, I wipe it away. “I need some space, Thorn.” From men. From all men.
Yet my shock as he walks past me out of the bedroom nearly knocks me to my knees. He’s just leaving? I don’t know him at all. Sniffling, I limp into the bathroom and take a look at my face. A bruise covers my cheekbone in angry purple and red, extending to my ear. Eesh. It is bad. Feeling abandoned and lost, I shuffle to the attached closet and remove my jewelry before grabbing a worn T-shirt and limping back into the bedroom.
Thorn’s waiting, sitting on the bed with frozen bags of vegetables next to him.
I frown, my brain not working. “I’m not hungry.”
“Come here.”
My feet move before my brain registers the words, and then I’m standing in front of him. Still sitting, he grasps my white halter top at the hem and gently pulls it over my head. Then he whistles, looking at my rib cage.
I glance down to see furious purple streaks across my ribs.
“Hold your breath.” He gingerly probes the injury.
I suck in air, unable to do anything else. I know he’s gentle, but agony ripples through my torso.
Finally, he stops. “They’re not broken or cracked, but you’re going to be sore. Punch or kick?”
“Kick.”