Page 72 of The Forever Game

Always. That’s how long I thought my love with Mikayla would last.

I was convinced we were endgame, but when I got home last night, she wasn’t there, and I couldn’t be in our apartment without her. So, I headed to Dad’s place and have spent the morning listening to him lecture me about the fact that Mikayla is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I better not lose her.

So that was fun.

And it definitely helped me leave.

As much as I didn’t want to walk back into an empty apartment again, I drove home.

I have no fucking idea where Mikayla is. I’ve tried calling her, but it just goes straight to voicemail, and the stream of texts I’ve sent her haven’t even been read.

Fuck. I don’t know if I should be scouring the city for her or if she’s holed up in some shitty motel room because I told her I was done.

Which I fucking didn’t.

I told her I couldn’t keep going like this.

Which she could have interpreted as done.

Shit, shit, fuck-balls!

“You asshole,” I mutter to myself, clomping up the stairs and punching in our key code.

Shoving the door open with my shoulder, I slam it behind me and flinch when I see Mikayla sitting on the couch. Her legs are curled up like she’s been hugging her knees. As I slowly walk down the short corridor, my steps loud on the polished floor, she unfurls herself and stands. She’s so short, so petite, yet her size never made her weak or vulnerable.

She’s normally feisty as hell. But right now, standing there in boxer shorts and one of my shirts, she looks tiny. My button-down engulfs her, swallowing her hands and slipping off one shoulder. She quickly pulls it back up and blinks at me.

Her eyes are wide and red around the edges. Has she been crying?

Fuck.

It takes a lot to make my woman cry, and I’m sure it’s my fault that she’s been curled up on our couch weeping. The image kills me. My chest constricts, guilt squeezing my insides to mush.

She sniffs, wiping her eyes before crossing her arms.

My lil’ mouse.

My precious lil’ mouse. I love her so fucking much.

I want to lift her against me and cradle her to my chest. I want to tell her I’m sorry for being an ass and that?—

Wait. What the fuck?

My eyes narrow in on her arm. My shirt has slipped again, spilling over her shoulder, and that’s when I see the purple bruises on her skin.

“Did someone hurt you?” I snap, growling my way to the couch and pulling the fabric down so I can get a good look at…

Finger marks.

Someone grabbed her. Squeezed her arm. Did he touch her anywhere else? Did he threaten her? Is this asshole the reason she’s been crying?

Rage tears through me in a heat wave that I can’t counter.

“It’s fine,” Mick mumbles, pulling away from me and tugging my shirt back up.

“It’snotfine! Who did this to you? Was it Axel? I’m gonna end that motherfucker.”

She closes her eyes. “No. It wasn’t him.”

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