Page 4 of Lace 'em Up

And we’re inside the small, enclosed space.

My heart hiccups, but I don’t have time to panic because Kingston is shutting off the bike’s engine, slowly climbing off, arm steadying me before he removes my helmet.

I wince even though he’s careful, my hair catching in the buckle.

“Sorry,” he murmurs as he extracts the helmet from my hair, his touch beyond gentle as he untangles a curl from the strap.

Despite all that gentle, it takes every bit of the strength I have left to hold back my grimace as that light touch sets my scalp on fire.

“Sorry,” he says again, but then the helmet’s free and he’s setting it to the side before reaching for me again.

I flinch.

I can’t help it.

“Your feet are bleeding, princess,” he murmurs. “I can’t let you walk inside like that.”

I glance down, almost surprised to find that he’s right, that I’ve lost the blue sparkly pumps somewhere—the something blue of my wedding outfit. My feet are scraped and cut and blood is dripping on the floor.

Another shudder that sends a bolt of pain through me.

“I’m going to carry you inside,” King says as though talking to a wounded animal.

And I suppose I feel like I am one right now.

I’d fought for something, fought hard and to the brutal end…

Only to find out I’d never had it in the first place.

That it wasn’t what I’d thought it was.

That I was right back to that same shit—an unwanted annoyance who’s unlovable and?—

“Okay?”

I blink, realize that King’s still talking.

And pairing it with action.

I hold steady this time as he carefully reaches forward, wraps his arms around me, and lifts me effortlessly, as though I’m no heavier than a box of tissues. And then I’m up in his arms, cradled against his chest as he walks out of the garage. A pause and the door rumbles down behind us before he walks toward the other garage, punching in a code at a different door, sending it rolling up, moving inside as soon as it’s cleared his six-foot-plus frame.

Dim light penetrates the windows on the far side of the space, a bulb in the opener overhead helps guide our way to the door leading into the house.

Ten long strides across.

One. Two steps up.

Another pause and press of the button to close the garage door behind us.

And yes, I know I’m fixating on the little details, the mundane shit, the step by step by step so I don’t freak out?—

Phillip.

The sound of his fist meeting my flesh.

I’d heard it before I felt it.

I shudder again, but I fight it, try to stop it in its tracks, and that’s likely why it’s so much worse, why the pain is a blazing wave that threatens to incinerate me.

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