Page 100 of When Lies Unfold

I lower my face, forcin’ her to look me in the eyes. “What’d I say?”

She scowls, and before she can offer another protest, I firm my tone. “Doc’s comin’ anyway. Might as well do it now.”

I can practically see the internal war takin’ place in her mind. When her body slumps marginally, I know I’ve won this round. “Fine.”

Lettin’ the towel drop to the counter and bunch around her hips, she eases her black shirt up and over her sports bra. After she slides her right arm free, she attempts the same with her left arm but stops with a sharp hiss.

“Let me help.”

At my request, weary brown eyes lift to mine. A few seconds pass until she murmurs, “Okay.” Her lips press into a thin line as I ease the shirt off her, guidin’ her arm as gently as I can. Lettin’ the wet fabric drop onto the counter, I grit my teeth at what it’s bared.

Sonofabitch. She tried to shield that panther with her own body and got shot. Thank fuck it didn’t do more damage and only grazed the flesh of the outer part of her shoulder where it meets her upper arm.

Gently takin’ her arm in my hand, I inspect it closely. Blood still stains the area where the bullet left a small gouge in her inked flesh. No wonder movement makes her wince.

I force myself to take a breath before my gaze connects with hers. “You know how many of my guys have been grazed like this and whined about it?” My thumb sweeps along her elbow. “And here you are, not givin’ it much thought.”

She stares at my throat, but it’s like she’s lookin’ straight through me, not really seein’ anythin’. I nudge her chin upward with two fingers, forcin’ her to meet my eyes. The emptiness in ’em twists my gut into knots.

That alone tells me Marcelo’s suspicions are pure bullshit. This woman isn’t a spy for Hidalgo. There’s no fuckin’ way she’s fakin’ any of this.

It’s why my steely declaration comes so easily. “He’s gonna pay for what he did.”

“Why do you care.” Her tone is listless, without any inflection.

My muscles knot with tension ’cause I sure as hell don’t like havin’ my motives questioned. I drop my hands from her and step back. “I don’t hurt animals. Especially not ones who defend a human.”

Her face crumples, her chin droppin’ to her chest. She sits atop my vanity in her black pants and sports bra, traces of dirt remainin’ along the bottoms and sides of her feet.

My eyes are drawn back to her wound, and I ease forward again to inspect it. The instant I lay my hand on top of her inked shoulder slightly above the injury, I freeze in place. Her body turns to steel beneath my fingers, her breathin’ shallow.

Holy fuck. Hidden in this particular section beneath those colorful blue morpho butterfly tattoos are a shit-ton of thick scars.

“Don’t.” Ragged with emotion, her whispered plea has my eyes jerkin’ to her face, but her gaze remains averted. “Don’t ask.”

How the fuck can’t I? It’s not like this is your average type of scar, either. I know what it feels and looks like after a knife’s carved into someone’s skin.

That’s exactly what this is.

Slowly, startin’ at the side of her neck where her ink starts, I trace a downward path with my fingertips. Makin’ sure to avoid her injury, I sweep over the marred skin at her shoulder and trail along the colorful tattoos, intermittently encounterin’ more hidden scars along her arm and knuckles.

Some motherfucker took a goddamn knife to this woman and carved into her like a toddler would scribble on paper.

Who the fuck did this to her?

A knock on my bedroom door sounds, followed by Doc’s voice. “Mr. Hernández?”

I drop my hand and force myself to move to the side to make room for him. “In here, Doc.”

With his brows drawn together, he rushes in, bag in hand. Settin’ it on the counter, he appraises Lola, his gaze instantly zeroin’ in on her injury. “Well, young lady, it seems I’m the one who’ll be patching you up.”

I grip the rigid muscles in the back of my neck, not wantin’ to leave, but she probably wants me to. Edgin’ back farther, I’m about to step out when Lola’s voice stops me.

“Could you”—she hesitates—“stay?”

It doesn’t even cross my mind to deny her. I instantly move to her opposite side while Doc prepares to clean her wound.

She curls her fingers tightly over the edge of the bathroom counter, but we don’t speak. Doc starts cleanin’ the area, his tone gentle as he shares his assessment with her. He must touch on a tender spot, though, ’cause she sucks in a sharp breath. Her right hand grips the counter’s edge so tight I fear the granite might crack.

---