Page 48 of Roaming Holiday

“All right.”

I leave the door ajar as I follow Nina inside. Her hair is in two braids. I assume Maia did them since she could hardly take the pins out of her hair earlier. She wears an oversized Wilton University t-shirt and short shorts. My hands ache to replace my gaze caressing her slender legs. I tamper my disappointment when she tucks them beneath her as she lowers onto the sofa. I sit on the other end while she deals the cards. It’s been over a decade since I played, but the rules are simple enough.

The game is quiet, save for the few huffs and whines when I set down a plus-four or a color she wasn’t hoping for. I win the first round. I’d let her win if UNO was a game more of strategy than chance. But I’m dealt with another plus-four that I have no choice but to use since I’m out of reds and twos. She glares at me, slapping a hand on the cushion.

“Seriously?”

I shrug and say nothing despite the crack in her voice. I want to make sure she has enough water, to ask if she needs painkillers or if the buzzing sound stopped. But I continue the game and listen to the cicadas and crickets singing outside.

Nina squeals when I toss in a blue seven. She starts slapping down cards like money. “Skip, skip, skip, reverse, three, eight, and plus-flour. UNO!” She holds up her final card with a grin.

“Wait—”

“You’ve hit me with two plus-fours! How’s it feel?”

Damn. I forgot how much I hate losing. I stutter as I study my new cards. “Not—not great.”

She picks the color yellow. I set down a yellow three and, as expected, she tosses in her last card and quips, “I win!”

I huff, a smile tugging at my lips.

I gather the deck to shuffle, and Nina suddenly asks, “Where is he?”

“Who?” I look up, only to realize she’s staring at my damaged knuckles.

“The man. The one who?—”

“The hospital,” I interject, dreading what the end of that sentence would be. She watches me, waiting for more detail. I clear my throat as I start dealing the cards. “I broke his eye socket. He’ll have brain damage, but he’ll live.”

She hesitates. “Do you feel guilty?”

The question surprises me. “No,” I say, staring at her bruised neck while I finish dealing. “I don’t feel guilty.”

I feel homicidal.

But she doesn’t need to know that.

24

NINA

My head is heavy in the morning. The dryness in my throat is so painful that I throw myself toward the nightstand, knocking off my phone and nearly tipping the lamp over to reach my water bottle. I chug the water despite the dizziness and throbbing ache.

I collapse back onto the pillow with instant regret. My neck twinges in pain, the soreness echoing through my body. Tears spring to my eyes.

Powerless.

I stood there doing nothing. I let him choke me.

We don’t want you here.

A painful sob chokes out of me. I clench the comforter and fight to inhale a single breath. But the raw, paralyzing feeling of last night rips at my throat and blocks my airway. I wish I hadn’t woken up. I wish I could stay asleep until this trauma passed like a bad cold. I dig my face into the pillow until I’m composed enough to breathe.

My first instinct is to call out for Wesley. He let me cry on him last night, took care of me; he’s done more than enough and I don’t want to bother him. Besides, what would he do? Crawl into bed with me?

Perhaps it’s not too far-fetched of an idea considering he washed my hair. It was intimate in a way I hadn’t experienced before. I might have been naked, but nothing about it was sexual. I felt him weaving into my soul, thread by thread. It’s not because he stopped my attack. If I told anyone about my growing feelings for him, they’d say I’m projecting my trauma. He washed my hair. A normal bodyguard wouldn’t do that, right? Or was it out of pity?

For thirty minutes, I toss and turn until the need to pee is too intense to ignore. Afterward, I look at my reflection for the first time. I pointedly ignored it last night, too afraid to face how much of a wreck I am. Red spots scatter through my right eyeball. A purple handprint marks my throat. It’s noticeable but will fade quickly. I’ve never been one to bruise easily.

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