Page 83 of Take My Hand

A glance at the bag, also with a few swipes of blood on it, and she gives me a quiet sorry.

“Here,” I say, stepping in front of her and taking one of her hands. Her palm is sweaty against mine and shakes in my hold. I grab the towel from her and gently dab at her fingers.

She doesn’t say anything as I clean her knuckles with water from her bottle. The basement is quiet around us, as if even the house is waiting with bated breath to see what happens next.

Three days of silence.

I’ve given her space. If she’s here, then…

“Carter,” I say quietly.

She doesn’t respond, won’t bring her eyes up from their spot on the floor.

“Talk to me. Please.”

Her chin wobbles but still keeps her head tilted down.

I drop the towel and cup her face gently, lifting her face to meet mine.

A crack rips through my chest as she finally looks at me for the first time since I found her. Hazel eyes brimming with fresh tears and red from old ones. So much worry, so much sadness, so much rage behind them.

“Carter…”

“No.” She steps back, wiping her cheeks. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” I frown.

“Say my name like that. Like I’m going to,” she waves her hands wildly in front of her, “like I’m going to break or something.”

I don’t think that at all. Carter’s resilience is one of the things that drew me to her in the first place. The way she still thrived at her job under Daniel’s shoe while they were partners, and the way she stepped up into her own when they weren’t anymore. The way she barely missed a beat after her initial reaction to her three-year long relationship imploding. And the way she was ready to face her ex head-on at the club, until he pulled out a missile when all she had was armor.

I hold my hands up in surrender. “I’m just relieved to see you. I’ve been worried.”

“I bet you have. How couldn’t you be after hearing those things?” She says the last part under her breath and my anger spikes.

“Don’t do that.” I invade her space and find the smallest reassurance in the way her body seems to lean closer to me, seeking me out. But then she pulls back a step. “Don’t make assumptions on how you think I’ve been reacting when you were the one who asked for space. You don’t know how sick I’ve been thinking about you all alone at your apartment when all I wanted to do was be there for you.”

She shakes her head, looking at her feet. “I didn’t want to see you.”

Her words slice through me, but I try to keep a level head. She’s hurting, and she’s trying to protect herself. Logically, I understand it. Emotionally, it hurts.

“I know. And that’s why I stayed away. But clearly, you’re here now.”

She gestures to the boxing bag. “I needed to get some energy out.” But her body still thrums, needing more.

“Is that the only reason?”

The silence stretches until the air is so charged, even the smallest sound could snap it.

“No,” she finally says, and my shoulders relax. “I know a conversation needs to happen between us. But…”

“But what?”

“I’ve been scared.” She swallows thickly. “I didn’t want to see if you looked at me differently. And if I stayed away, I wouldn’t have to know if that changed.”

Before she even finishes that last sentence, I’m pulling her into my arms, uncaring of the mess we both are after our workouts. I wrap my arms around her shoulders and rest my chin on top of her head. She’s stiff in my hold, but I refuse to let her go.

“Do you think I’m a cheating whore?” she asks against my chest.

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