Page 17 of Beautifully Wounded

I’dnearly gotten away. I was so close, but then my parents found out my secret, and within minutes, the wedding was being brought forward to tomorrow.

“Charity?” Ringo’s gruff whisper snaps my eyes to his. “Are you prone to seizures?”

His face is so close that I nearly bump my nose into his, so I shrink back to try and focus my eyes on his shadowed expression.

“What? No,” I whisper back, and this time his large hand reaches up to my face.

Naturally, I flinch, which causes him to growl, and I want to ask him if he’s part bear with the way he does that, but when he reaches forward again, he swipes his thumb across my cheek, and I remain stock still.

“You’re trembling so much I wasn’t sure if you were seizing. And you’re crying again. Have I not made it clear that I’m not going to hurt you?”

I scoff loudly, but then slap my hand over my mouth, my eyes wide as the light filtering from the front dash illuminates how he lifts a single brow at me. And then he slowly smiles.

“See, I’m not so scary.”

I scoff again, this time dropping my hand away, and he does that growly thing.

“Now that your seizing is slowing, do you want to tell me why you’re crying again?”

“I’m not crying,” I mutter, swiping at my wet cheeks.

“Youwerecrying,” he counters. “Do you want me to take you back home?”

His question stiffens my spine again, and I try to stare into his eyes to gauge his seriousness, but in this light, it’s hard to tell.

“If I saidyes, would you?”

He doesn’t answer me.

“That’s what I thought,” I mutter.

“Wanna tell me about your parents? Why were you locked in your room?”

His question feels too personal, and I cross my arms over my chest and try to turn away from him, but I literally can’t move any further with us both squeezed under the seatbelt.

“Come on, Charity. Help me understand what’s going on.”

“Call me Ell,” I interrupt, relaxing back into his arm a little more. I may as well, since I have no idea how long we’ll be driving for.

“Ell?” he asks, sounding confused.

“Yes. Short for Eloise. It’s my middle name.”

He chuckles. “Your name from now on is Charity.”

“But I don’t like Charity. It makes me sound like a charity case,” I whine.

“Exactly.” He nods, and I have the urge to punch him.

Do it, Abbey. What’s he going to do? Hit you back?

Well, duh. Isn’t that what men do?

“You think I’m a charity case?” I snap, trying to sit taller and not lean against his arm this time.

“Yes. Because you are a charity case,” he says so matter-of-factly that the urge to punch him turns into wanting to bite his nose off.

And I would, but then there’d be blood and I’m not really good around other people’s blood.

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