Page 103 of Reckless King

Shaking, probably from adrenaline, I duck my head and examine my wrist. It’s ringed in red and slightly swollen, but other than the irritation and a dull ache when I flex my hand, it’s okay.

Jarrod is holding my hand now, inspecting the injury. He peers up at me, concern shadowing his gaze. “Who was that guy? Should I call the police? You could file assault charges.”

I force myself to focus. To imagine what would happen if the press got wind of it. The whole point of this arrangement with Tate was to dissuade the tabloids from writing scandalous things about him, and to make True Brew a staple of the community again. Pressing charges against Senator Rawlins’ nephew wouldhave the opposite effect. And by the look of the fear on his face as Brad chased him out of here, I don’t think he’ll be back. I still don’t understand why he came in the first place.

So I shake my head. “I’m okay. He just got carried away. It won’t happen again.” I’m glad that I sound calmer than I feel. Having Eric here, in my shop, where he never should have stepped foot—putting his hands on me in a way I never believed he would—is beyond disconcerting. He belongs in my past, not inserting himself into my new life.

Jarrod frowns. “You’re going to tell Tate, right? He needs to know.”

The bell over the door chimes, and Brad appears, heading straight for me. “Are you okay?” He takes in my wrist, and his expression darkens. “I should have beaten his ass.”

I let out a shaky breath. “I appreciate the sentiment. But he’s just a bitter ex. He doesn’t even live in New York, so I doubt he’ll be back.”

He pulls his phone out. “I need to inform Mr. King.”

I put my hand on his arm. “Can I be the one to tell Tate?”

He frowns but nods reluctantly and slides his cell back into his pocket. It’s his job to inform Tate of any incidents, so I appreciate him letting me do this myself.

“You need to do it now though,” he says. “He won’t be happy if he hears about it in my end of shift report.”

“Of course. I don’t want you to get into trouble.” I turn to Jarrod. “Can you cover the rest of the afternoon?”

He nods, concern still creasing his brow. “Absolutely. And now that I know what he looks like, I’ll make sure he doesn’t try creeping back in.”

“Thank you. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I look up at Brad. “Can you take me to Tate?”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

TATE

I’m in the middle of my call to the UK when Sophie buzzes me. She knows I’m in a meeting, so if she’s interrupting it, then the reason must be important.

I excuse myself, put the call on hold and hit the intercom. “What’s the problem?”

“Sorry for the interruption, sir. Your fiancée is here to see you. You told me to let her in if she ever came to the office, so…?”

My stomach drops. Not because I don’t want to see Violet, but because she should be working at True Brew. She’s never come by before, and I’m hit with the uneasy feeling that the reason behind her visit isn’t a good one. “Send her in. Thanks, Sophie. Can you reschedule the UK meeting for tomorrow?”

After hanging up, I close out of the call. Sophie will soothe any ruffled feathers for me. I’m more concerned about my fiancée. Itching to lay eyes on her, I push my chair back and make my way around my desk. I’m only a few steps from the door when she knocks, so I swing it open myself.

Violet takes a step back, her hand pressed against her chest as if I’ve startled her.

The red marks on her wrist practically jump out at me, and my heart slams into my throat. I reach for her hand and cradle it in mine as I scrutinize the injury. It’s already bruising.

“Who the hell did this?” I bite out. When I focus on her face, needing an answer, her lips are parted and her eyes are wide. I gentle my tone. “Violet. Who hurt you? Was it a reporter?”

She peeks over her shoulder at Sophie, who’s doing her best to not look like she’s listening in, and turns back to me. “Can I tell you in your office?”

Still holding her hand, I lead her inside. I close the door quietly, and when I turn back, she’s standing in the middle of the room, taking in the space. The part of me that isn’t consumed with finding out what happened to her is frustrated, because I should have brought her here weeks ago. She’s my fiancée. She should be familiar with my office. She should feel like she can drop in at any time, not just when something is wrong.

I shove my hand through my hair. “How did you get hurt? Was it at True Brew? I didn’t get a call from Pinnacle.”

Her blue eyes meet mine. “I asked Brad not to call. He drove me here so I could tell you myself.”

Jesus Christ. If she doesn’t hurry up and explain, my chest might implode. If she wanted to tell me herself, then it likely wasn’t an accident. Someone hurt her. “Sit down, butterfly.” I grasp her elbow gently and guide her to the couch in the corner of my office. “Tell me who I need to deal with.”

She sits, and I take my place next to her, grasping her hand again and brushing my thumb over the bruises. Now that I’ve gotten a good look, the places where the fingers pressed into her tender skin are obvious. Someone grabbed her hard enough to mark her. Anger is building hard and fast inside me, heating my blood to a simmer. “What happened?”

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