Page 20 of Restore Me

Or at least she did four days ago.

Now, it’s Tuesday and her text sits unanswered in a fresh message thread that haunts me with possibilities I can never consider. Possibilities that paralyzed me after leaving her place knowing there was a hole in her top the size of a grimy finger that belonged to an asshole I wanted to track down and kill.

And that was another problem.

The white-hot rage I’ve always known was inside of me but have never acted on out of fear of feeling too much like my father—a man who used his fists to hurt rather than protect, to break things down instead of building them up. And he’s the last person I want to be like. I could almost forgive myself for bearing his name and looks, for having his large hands and the same charming smile that made my mom forget the bruises around her throat when he brought flowers. I told myself none of it mattered since I wasn’t like him in all the ways that mattered.

The fundamental difference being my ability to keep my fucking hands to myself. To use my words to handle issues and to walk away when things moved past the point of discussion.

But every bit of that went out the window when I saw the panic in Sloane’s eyes. Letting the rage take over was a conscious choice. Hitting the man not once, but twice and then choking him—choking him—felt like the most natural thing in the world to do because it meant protecting her. But I didn’t know it also meant unleashing the darkest part of myself; the part I’ve spent my whole life trying to suppress.

Bitter.

Jealous.

Wrathful.

Violent.

And Sloane’s message just….made it worse somehow. It fed the rage, and told it to make itself at home in my veins. And it listened. I watched in horror as it kicked up its feet and turned the power boil it was on down to a low simmer, so it could get comfortable with another substance that had infused itself into my blood: desire.

The two meshed together, mixing with her scent that was still lingering in my car. Haunting me. Making me remember things I should definitely forget when it came to my best friend’s wife. Like the golden inches of skin that glistened under the lights when her skirt rode up her thigh. The way the curly tendrils at her nape clung to the curve of her neck like a passionate kiss.

Then there was the way she looked at me when I pulled her away from that asshole. Like I was her savior. Like I was someone she trusted to care about and take care of her. She let me touch her, leaned into me instead of pulling away. Used my body as a shield and believed with a fierceness that shined in those soft hazel eyes I wouldn’t let any harm come to her. The worse thing about it? I wouldn’t.

Club Noir would have been razed to the fucking ground if it wasn’t for her tiny hand on my chest, covering my heart and reminding me of an angel in a white dress I’d given up finding a lifetime ago. And as much as I’d like to believe the rage thrumming in my blood would have been ignited in the same way if it was any other woman in that situation, I know it isn’t true.

That’s why the text and everything else that happened Saturday night—including a sleepless night full of dreams of her—has me so fucked up. Fucked up enough that I’ve tuned out everyone in the boardroom in favor of re-reading a message I have no idea how to respond to. It’s probably too late to do it anyway.

Sliding my phone into the inside pocket of my jacket, I drag my gaze to Sloane. She’s been sitting across from me for the last hour, tapping the tip of her pen on the table in front of her, eyes on the next man I’ll have to strangle if he puts a hand on her. James shuffles the papers in front of him and wraps up a speech about deadlines that’s supposed to be aimed at me, but he’s looking directly at her. I would be upset if my eyes weren’t on her too.

All of her beautiful curls are perfectly defined, shining like a black halo around her head, which is fitting since the daggers flying from her eyes every time she deigns to look my way could rival any angel of death. Then there’s the black silk camisole that’s tucked into a pair of high-waisted black slacks and paired with a—you guessed it—black blazer with lines sharp enough to cut you if you touched her.

Anyone else would look at the outfit and think she’s just leaning into the monochromatic fad, but I see it for what it is: a suit of armor. It reminds me of the outfits she favored right after Eric died. When she was probably so raw emotionally just the thought of exposing herself to the world chafed against the cavern of grief that was her heart. I saw my mother do the same thing after my piece of shit father finished taking every inconvenience from his day out on her body.

Looking at Sloane reminds me a little too much of watching my mom slinking out of her room cloaked in cardigans, turtlenecks, and pants that swam around her ankles. I pull in a tight breath, forcing my eyes away from her and ignoring the need to ask if she’s okay that’s expanding in my chest. Is she hurt physically?

I did my best to examine her that night, but I can’t be sure how reliable my eyes were when my vision was covered in red. Clenching my fist, I consider the possibility her wounds are more emotional. Shock isn’t uncommon when it comes to sexual assault, even if it was a near miss, and Sloane had practically been vibrating with fear when I found her.

James glances at me. He’s just finished talking and judging by the expectant look on his face, the words I’ve been ignoring were still being aimed at me.

I give him a curt nod. “Sounds good.”

The vague response must be exactly what he’s looking for because he turns his attention back to the papers in front of him and declares the meeting over a few minutes later. Everyone files out of the room, chatting about lunch plans and how their weekend went. I take my time vacating my seat, pretending to be engrossed in an email from my assistant as I watch James approach Sloane. She’s still sitting, so her head tilts back when she looks up at him. A friendly, but vacant, smile curving her full lips.

James touches her shoulder and leans closer to her. His words are hushed and intimate, putting me on fucking edge. I hit reply on the email from Alex and type out a lengthy response, ears trained on the voices flowing to me from across the room.

“That sounds lovely, James. I just have a ton of work to get through today. Maybe another time?” Sloane’s eyes flick to me as she pushes back from the table.

Am I keeping her from making plans with him? A flare of annoyance runs through me as the knowledge that she really could be seeing this asshole hits me like a physical blow to the chest. They’re both moving towards the door. His hand is on the small of her back, and I can’t stop myself from pushing to my feet and following them down the hall.

“Sloane,” I call out, bringing both of their steps to a halt. She turns around and hits me with those daggers once again. “I need to speak to you for a moment.”

One perfect brow raises, and I know a smart-ass response about me ignoring her message and entire presence at Mama’s on Sunday is pinging around her head. But instead of letting it pass through her lips, she purses them and turns her attention back to James.

“Can we finish this discussion later?”

He smiles down at her. Rows of straight white teeth I want to knock out of his mouth gleaming with pleasure at the idea of speaking to her again. My hands clench into tight fists as he leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek.

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