Page 79 of Wicked Games

Shirtless, yes.

Horribly,horriblybruised.

“Were you in a car accident?” I gasp.

He watches me, immobile, until I step forward. Only then does he step back. I keep coming, and he keeps retreating until he hits the counter. I don’t stop until I’m right between his legs.

The need to catalog every injury swells in me.

A pair of black eyes. A bandage over his nose. Split lip, swollen jaw. There are bruises around his throat and across his chest, but most is centered on his ribs and stomach. Fist-shaped bruises. Shapes that I can’t comprehend.

While I was having a sleepover, he was…

“It wasn’t a car accident, was it,” I guess.

Oh God.

My hands flutter over him without touching. I pause over his heart and lower my palm. His heart is steady, while my pulse is out of control. One hand stays on his chest, and I let my other continue up. Over his throat, which bobs, to his jaw. I sweep my thumb across his lower lip. The cut has scabbed over, but that doesn’t make it any better.

His eyes are dark blue, standing out even more against the purple-black bruises.

“You’re mad that Iseeyou,” I whisper. “All of you. And I’m not backing down. I’m here because you can’t get rid of me, even if you threaten me.”

I’m in.

Two words and a mountain worth of clarity.

It’s always been Caleb. It’ll alwaysbeCaleb.

He hasn’t moved, and his words from his car come back to me. He handed me control, and I still have it. His hands rest on the counter, supporting some of his weight. His eyes are on my face.

It’s my decision.

“Touch me,” I demand, then hesitate. “Unless you’re in too much pain.”

If anything, his eyes get darker. I suppress a shiver. His finger edges under the waistband of my uniform skirt, untucking my shirt. He slowly unbuttons it and tugs it wide open. And then he just… looks at me.

“Caleb.”

He sighs. “You know what’s fucked up?”

I raise my eyebrow.

“I don’t want you to get hurt anymore—or get caught up in my mess.”

“What happened?”

He shifts slightly, but it’s enough to allow me a glance at his back in the mirror.

Oh no.

There are long welts crisscrossing his wide shoulder blades. The skin around each is angry red, and I can’t imagine how painful it is.

No wonder he was sleeping on his stomach.

“Who did this?” I ask, keeping my voice level. I’ve never quite experienced the rage that I sometimes see on Caleb’s face, but it’s coming at me now, faster than a hurricane. My hands shake.

He lifts them, kissing my fingers. “You caring means a lot.”

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