Page 91 of Inflame

“Move out of the way, Claire.”

His voice is eerily calm. Like he is methodically planning out his next moves. And the stress of the situation pulls me down, straight to the floor. Nic follows me down, pulling me into a hug, which oddly feels good. I welcome it. Anything is better than the physical or emotional pain.

“Don’t cry. Please.” Now it is his turn to beg. “I will destroy that fucker for touching you. You know that, right? I will pay him back whether it be now or later.”

I feel like my heart is breaking, and it isn’t until Nic has me cradled against his chest and moving back down toward the elevators that I realize a potential disaster is diverted.

“I’m sorry,” I whimper, as he manages to get my luggage into the empty car, hit the button for the lobby, and still keep me in his arms.

“You don’t have a thing to be sorry for, Claire. And if you apologize again for something that clearly isn’t your fault, I may drop you off with Angie and Graham and go back up and murder the bastard. He should have never touched you with force, and there is no limit of hate I have for myself by not making you stay in the suite last night where you would have been safe.”

“I want to walk,” I say softly when the doors are about to open on the main floor.

Granting my wish, Nic places me on my feet, steadying me with a hand to the small of my back.

My part of checking out is done. Ethan has my key, and if he loses the security deposit from damaging the room that is entirely on him. The previous suite was already taken care of with Nic. My only responsibility is to walk out.

Nic has the sense to not ask me a hundred questions. He knows something is very wrong with me. It has to be written all over my face. But instead, we just walk. I welcome the quiet. It is the calmest I have felt since waking up to unwanted lips seeking me out. How can a man think it is okay to just take without ever giving anything back?

I am angry with myself for being hurt. Being hurt is a choice sometimes. I allowed my heart to open up, and I allowed someone inside to cause it damage. This is my fault.

But is it? The more I think over the whole situation that keeps fluttering through my head like a series of pictures from a slideshow, the more I realize that sure, I stayed to have sex with Ethan. But I sure as hell didn’t do anything to bring on the emotional abuse that probably started long before Vegas. I just put blinders on and made excuses for him. His methods were just sneakier in how he would deliver his nonphysical blows.

The way he critiques what I eat. How I decide to wear my clothes. The way I talk. No wonder I started to second-guess how I interacted with him. Deep down, I was always scared of his reaction.

Ethan thinks I’m not a responsible person, basing that solely off of my finances. Well, he’s not responsible either in how he handles his temper. I can’t keep going to bat for someone who isn’t willing to do the same for me.

When we get outside, Nic sighs. I look up at him as he runs a hand through his short brown hair and looks visibly stressed. He opens his mouth several times to talk, but seems to second-guess himself and quickly shuts it.

My eyes droop, and I look at the people walking by us on the sidewalk. I arrived here a different person than how I’m leaving. It is not in the good, metaphoric way either. I feel beaten down and battered by the rude entry into adulthood. I have no one to rely on but myself, and that is a lonely, sobering realization.

“Did that asshole hurt you worse than what I can see?”

I glance up at Nic as a few tears spill out of my eyes. I angrily wipe them away.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Physically?” he snarls.

“No.” What Ethan did was worse than getting shoved or pressed into the mattress. Anything else physical wouldn’t have messed up my view of myself. Instead, he methodically attacked me for who I am as a person. If he would have just beat me up, I definitely wouldn’t feel like I’m in this sort of limbo as I’m feeling right now, wondering if intensive therapy can fix what is broken. I would have just left.

I hate crying in front of others but have no way of shutting it off.

Nic manages to look genuinely sad. I didn’t even think he had that emotion in his limited rolodex of feelings. He usually only expresses his top two—mad or not mad.

And I know he is livid with Ethan Maxwell.

“Don’t let him ruin the ending of this trip. We had a good time. Let’s enjoy the last few hours. Forget about the selfish bastard. He doesn’t deserve someone pure like you.”

Tears continue to fall, the trails evaporating fast in the dry heat. No one has ever referred to me aspurebefore. I almost want to snicker. I am not naive enough to believe that his words are true. Many people seem to think they know more about my sex life than I do, assuming I spread my legs for anyone interested.

“Hey,” Nic says, tilting up my chin. “Things have a way of working themselves out. You’ll see.”

When did he become an optimist? And how much of Nic Hoffman do I not yet know? If he is anything like his older brother, I am in for a lot of surprises.

I wipe my tears away, take a few deep breaths, square my shoulders, and start the trek to the waiting limo. Nic places my belongings into the back compartment, then helps me with the door, as I slide in to join the others.

I snap on my seatbelt and smile over at Angie and Graham. “I’m so excited to see some of the other casinos.”

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