Page 47 of Bound

But, by then, the door’s wide enough for me to slip inside, to see?—

“What the fuck?” I breathe.

To see Claire hunched in the corner, her hands over her ears. “I’m fine,” she says as her knees give way and she sinks into a crouch, a tiny ball of huddled human. “I’m fine. I just need?—”

Not fine.

She’s so not fine.

And maybe I should wait, maybe I should give her space.

But…

I can’t.

I need to touch her, to hold her, to make sure she knows she’s safe.

So, I move toward her, scoop her up, and carry her to the counter next to the sink, thankful that this restaurant is expensive as shit and so it’s clean. Then I reach to the door, make sure it’s shut, it’s locked—so no dumbass can barge in like I did.

“I’m fine,” she says again as I turn back to her, and I don’t bother to dignify that with a response, don’t bother to do anything but move to her again, but wrap her in my arms, planting a hand in the center of her back, and drawing her to me.

“Bullshit,” I say, able to feel her trembling. “You’re a beautiful liar, but you’re still a liar. Tell me what prompted the sprint to the bathroom. Because it sure as shit isn’t an upset stomach.”

Silence.

Then a stunned blip of laughter.

“No,” she admits with a long, shuddering exhale. “It’s not an upset stomach.” Another breath and then she pushes lightly at my chest.

I drop my arms.

I don’t want to, but I hear it in her voice. The strength returning. Her spine straightening. Knowing whatever threw her is being pushed aside.

“Gonna clue me in?” I ask, and yeah, it’s less a request and more an order, but…I said what I said.

“No,” she says, shoving my chest, pushing me backward, and she says it so matter-of-factly that the word takes me a moment to process.

In that moment, she’s moving toward the door.

I catch her arm, draw her back, dragging her hand away from the knob. “Nice try, kitty cat.” I spin her in my hold, pin her in place with my gaze.

“Are you going to tell me about what I found out?” she whispers. “And why it made you hate me?”

A cold-ass bucket of water over my head.

My hand drops to my side.

Her smile is small and…sad.

“Fuck, I?—”

“No,” she says, guilt intruding in on her expression. “I’m being a jerk. I—” She takes a breath. “I’m sorry. I guess…I guess I’m still struggling with this— After my date?—”

Rage in my belly. “That guy was a dick?—”

“It’s not him—” She presses her lips together. “Okay, so it’s notallabout him. I can’t lie, him taking a look at me and GTFOing freaking stings, but I…” A sigh. “That’s not why I?—”

“Why you ran away from wine?”

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