Page 167 of A Little Broken

“And…”He’s okay,a tiny voice inside my whispers. I hold onto it. The voice. The reminder. The evidence standing in front of me.He’s okay.“Good job kicking his ass,” I add grudgingly.

His smile widens, and he leans down for a kiss, but I’m too overstimulated to reciprocate. No. Now, all I feel is numb. Tingling spreads from my parted lips, down my body, and out to my limbs. He pulls away, a slight furrow in his brow, and a questioning look shining in his gaze before understanding replaces it.

“Fuck, Tate. I’m?—”

Rising onto my tiptoes, I hook my arms around his neck and tug him into me, kissing him with every ounce of fear and panic and…relief that he’s okay. And he takes it. He takesit all, wrapping his arms around my waist, forcing me against him. His hold is so tight, my ribs scream in protest, but I don’t care. I don’t care at all. Because this man? This man is okay, and he knows that all I need right now is proof that’s true. That he’s in front of me. That he’s still breathing. That he isn’t going anywhere, and fuck if that isn’t the scariest thought of all. Because I’ve never cared if the men I sleep with go anywhere. I’ve never cared if they vanish into thin air. I’ve never cared about their well-being or their safety. Not since Arch. And that’s the scariest thought of all. Because if something can happen to Arch, then something can happen to Pax, and the idea of something happening to Pax is…it’s not okay. It’s not okay at all.

Please don’t go anywhere.

“Pax,” someone interrupts.

Pressing his forehead to mine, Pax sighs. “Yeah, Rome?”

“If you’re gonna fuck, do it in the back room. We have another fight in five.”

Pax nods slowly, his forehead brushing against mine, before he drags his fingers along my arm and takes my hand, refusing to let me go as he tugs me through the throng of people and into a back room.

47

PAXTON

The warehouse has been abandoned since I was a kid, but I remember it like the back of my hand. Same four walls. Same dusty floor. Same broken windows. It’s crowded tonight. More than I thought it would be. I guess Roman did his job and spread the word. Or maybe every fight night is like this. And the shit parked out front? Hell, I can practically smell the money wafting through the air. It mixes with the expensive colognes and perfumes like a rich person’s potpourri. Refusing to look for any familiar faces from my previous life or current one, I drag Tatum through the throng of people in search of privacy. A few of them reach out, trying to congratulate me on the win, but I barely look at them. Hell, I can’t see anything right now. Not one fucking thing except the fear in Tatum’s eyes when I stepped out of the ring and pieced together what the hell was going on.

Choosing one of the rooms a little further away in hopes of it being empty, I twist the handle and push the door open. The hinges creak in protest as I pull Tate with me, closing the door behind us with another squeak from its hinges.

“I’m sorry,” Tatum blurts out.

Finding the light switch, I flick it on, then turn on my heel and cock my head. “What?”

“I said, I’m sorry.”

“You have no reason to be sorry.”

“I lost my shit over something so stupid?—”

“It’s not stupid,” I interrupt. Cupping her face, I drag my thumbs along her cheek bones, committing the feel of her silky skin to memory while fighting my own inner loathing. I can’t believe I brought her here. I should’ve known. Fuck, of course I should’ve known. That she’d react like this. I mean, I told her. I told her I was gonna fight. That I’d been sparring for weeks. That I used to fight as a teen. And she never cared. Hell, if anything, she told me the idea of it all was hot. I thought she’d like it. She’d like the adrenaline and the ambiance and the people and the energy. But it doesn’t matter. Because tonight she wasn’t using her head, she was using her heart, and I fucking stomped all over it despite knowing everything she’s been through. Running my thumbs along her cheeks, I beg, “Tatum, look at me.”

Her eyelids close as the fight seeps out of her. “I feel so stupid.”

“Not.” I lean in and kiss the tip of her nose, careful to keep my split lip away from her. “Stupid.”

“It was only a fight.”

“Not.” My lips skate across hers in the barest of touches. “Stupid.”

Her bottom lip trembling, she breathes out, “I don’t know if I can do this.”

My body flinches back as I register the weight of her words. The determination. The sheer stubbornness, but more so, the fear. Her fear is driving her, and if anyone knows what it feels like, it’s me. “Tatum, don’t say that.”

“Pax, I’m serious?—”

“I fucked up,” I growl. “Okay? I fucked up.Me.” The word lodges in my throat, making it hard for me to breathe, let alone say something to ease the fear emanating from the girl in front of me. I need to fix this. To apologize. To unload the crippling pain she’s suffocating from. The problem is, I don’t knowhow.“I know your past, and I still brought you here.” I keep holding her face, willing her to look at me. “This is on me. Okay, Birthday Girl? It’s all on me.”

“Don’t you get it?” she whispers. Reaching up, she grabs my wrists and slowly forces me to lower my hands from cradling her cheeks. “Itwasme. I’m the problem. The one who’s fucked up.” A pathetic whimper slips out of her. “You were fighting, which I knew you were going to do, by the way, and honestly, it was hot as hell. I know that.” She forces a smile, but it’s wobbly at best. “Shit, Pax. You looked really hot up there. All rippling muscles, and…” She pulls her lip into her mouth, biting on the plump flesh as her hands roam my pecs and abdomen. “And I’m extremely attracted to you, but…instead of enjoying it like any normal red-blooded woman would, I freaked.” She sniffs. “I completely freaked, Pax, and what is wrong with me, you know?”

“Come here.” I grab her face again, desperate to feel her, to take away her pain, to fix this. When her back hits the door with a tiny thump, I order, “Tell this pretty little brain to shut the hell up, okay?” I kiss her forehead, hoping it’ll soften my demand. “I’m the one who messed up. I’m the one who should’ve known this would trigger you. It’s on me, not you.”

“Don’t you get it?” her voice cracks as she peeks up at me, tears clinging to her long, thick lashes. “You shouldn’t have to worry about triggering me. No one should have to worry about triggering anyone. It’s juvenile and stupid?—”

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