Page 44 of Release Me

An involuntary shudder runs through me at the thought. Sebastian’s knuckles are bruised, which means he didn’t just hit Vince once. He hit him multiple times, and he did it hard enough to draw blood, maybe even hard enough to break bone. I’m not uncomfortable with him fighting with his piece of shit cousin, not really, I just hate the way that the aftermath of the brawl makes me think about the marks Beau used to leave on me.

“I don’t think that would have solved anything.”

“You’re probably right. My aunt is already going to have my head for what I did to him this weekend.”

“Did you really do it because of what he said to me?” I’ve had a hard time wrapping my head around that. Sebastian has known Vince for his whole life. They’re blood, and I’m…I’m just the woman he almost kissed in his office.

“Which part of what happened this weekend bothers you more? The violence or the fact that it was done in your name? Because I can promise you that I’ll never be violent towards you, but I can’t say that I’ll never be violent for you.”

“Sebastian, please be serious.”

“Do I look like I’m joking, Nadia?”

He doesn’t. In fact, he’s wearing that deathly serious expression that makes his champagne colored eyes darken and leaves nothing up for discussion. I want to answer his question, but doing so would just lead us right back to that moment we were in earlier, and that’s a place I cannot go.

Like a coward, I turn my attention back to the tablet in my hand. “I’ve already started responding to some of the newer requests. The event calendar is filling out quite nicely. I wanted to get your thoughts on what to do with the older ones, though. Do we just leave well enough alone or reach out with an apology and maybe an offer for a free bottle of wine upon their next visit to the rooftop?”

I can tell he doesn’t appreciate the change in topic—the vein throbbing in the center of his forehead says as much—but he allows it to happen. “Make it a meal and also put a time limit on it. They’ll need to redeem the offer within sixty days or it expires.”

“Sixty days, got it.” Pushing to my feet, I move back to the other side of my desk, so I can make note of his suggestions. With our conversation done, I expect him to find a reason to excuse himself, but he stays seated. “Umm, did you need something else?”

The heat from his gaze sears my skin, and I struggle against the urge to fan my face with my hand. “Yes.”

“Okay. Am I supposed to guess or are you going to tell me?”

“You made the offer, Nadia, I’d expect you to remember it.” His cocked brow jogs my memory, and I snap my fingers.

“Right! Your face.” I pull my purse from the bottom drawer in my desk and begin to rummage through it, dumping brochures for apartments out so I can find my makeup bag. As fate would have it, it’s at the bottom of the Coach tote I bought over the weekend when I went shopping with Des.

While I’m digging through my junky bag, Sebastian picks up the stack of glossy tri-fold papers touting the amenities of the few buildings in town with apartments coming available in the next month.

“These places are nice.”

“Yeah, they are.” I grab the brochures out of his hand and tuck them back inside my bag. “Let’s go cover your bruises.”

Sebastian follows me to the private bathroom attached to my office, settling himself against the edge of the sink while I rummage through our options. I’m so grateful that I was able to invest in better products because the stuff I was using before wouldn’t have done a damn thing for the angry bruise under his eye.

“I need a closer look,” I tell him.

He opens his legs and spreads his arms wide, welcoming me into his space. I step forward with my focus on the tubes of concealer and color corrector in the bag instead of on where my feet are going and end up stumbling over one of his legs. My body pitches forward, and I brace myself for a collision that never happens because Sebastian’s hands fly to my waist. His long fingers span my sides and settle somewhere along the small of my back, refusing to budge even when I’m no longer in danger of falling.

Our eyes meet, and I consider, for the briefest of seconds, asking him to let me go, but ultimately decide against it because inside the bracket of his arms is the safest place I think I’ve ever been.

I lift a tentative hand to his face, tracing my fingertips around the uneven lines of the bruise, identifying the color hiding underneath the stained bronze of his skin.

“Purple,” I breathe, setting the bag on the edge of the counter next to him.

“Purple?”

“Your bruise. It’s purple.”

“That matters?”

“Yeah.” I feel the weight of his gaze on my face, as I dig out a face wipe from the bag and use it to cleanse the area. “The color of the bruise determines what concealer we’ll use to hide it.”

“Oh.”

I know there’s more he wants to say, more he wants to know, but he remains quiet while I work, using primer to prep his skin then applying a green color corrector to the bruise and blending it out with a small brush. I’m in the middle of blending the foundation with a sponge when he finally finds the courage to speak the words he’s been holding in.

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