Page 42 of Kortlek

The men I ended up fighting with put me in the hospital.

I’ll never forget Mom crying next to my hospital bed and the defeated look on Dad’s face. They thought I was asleep, but they blamed themselves. That was when I strategically started planning my exit from Wyatt and that relationship.

It took me another four months, but I had to leave.

I’d been over at his place for a couple of days, and he’d taken away my phone. He responded to Arlo’s texts, pretending it was me. I guess Arlo could tell it wasn’t me, and he came storming into Wyatt’s apartment. That was when he saw Wyatt hit me.

It took all the power and strength in my body to pull Arlo off Wyatt. He would’ve killed him.

I should’ve let him kill the bastard.

But I couldn’t.

As pathetic and as stupid as it may sound, I loved Wyatt. I didn’t want him dead. Arlo took me to his place and kept me there, lying to our parents until I was all healed up. Eventually, he pulled it all out from me, and I told him everything.

That was the only time I saw my brother crying.

He was blaming himself for not noticing sooner, for being too busy to pay attention. Mom and Dad didn’t know I was dating someone because in the past, whenever I had a crush on a boy, they’d do a detailed background search.

I didn’t tell them about Wyatt to prevent it all from happening. I should’ve told them.

The aftermath was catastrophic.

It took me a long time, but I managed to convince Arlo not to kill him. Instead, he had him banished from New York. Telling our parents was difficult, too. I saw how much they blamed themselves, how much this entire thing hurt them too.

So, one night, I just felt numb.

Wyatt’s words were constantly running through my head. Whenever he’d hit me, he’d tell me it was my fault. I thought it was my fault that my parents and Arlo were suffering, too. I didn’t want them to suffer anymore.

I sliced my wrists open and lay in the full bathtub.

Somehow, it didn’t hurt. The water in the tub changed color quickly, and my eyes felt heavy. I was letting go, completely tired and numb. Yet one piercing scream from Mom was what managed to get my eyes open.

The cold-hearted assassin, Noelle Campbell, the woman who killed her husband’s brother and tried killing the said husband on many different occasions, was on her knees in front of me, crying and begging for me not to die.

My eyes are filled with tears, cheeks stained, and vision blurry. All I can feel are Cove’s arms wrapping around me and pulling me onto his lap. He holds me closely, gently, stroking my hair, and I release a cry of pain.

For the first time since I was seventeen, I let myself cry. I cry until his chest is soaked with my tears, until my voice is strained, and until there are no more tears left to cry. He rocks me softly while holding me, letting me let it all out.

“He can’t hurt you anymore, bunny,’’ he promises. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he cannot even get within a walking distance from you. He’ll be dead before he can even land his filthy eyes on you. I promise I’ll keep you safe.’’

That only makes me cry harder.

Cove is many things, but a liar isn’t one of them. I trust him. All of me trusts him and believes his words. So, I let him hold me, burying my face in his chest and crying until I’m entirely spent. He’s patient, softly speaking in my ear. This big giant is so gentle with me, and I just can’t help but wonder if I even deserve it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The next time I wake up, I’m curled against Cove’s side on the couch. A thick, fluffy black blanket is wrapped around me, just below my chin like a burrito. The warmth and fuzziness fill me, and I snuggle closer into his side.

Cove hugs me closer to his body, resting his cheek on top of my head. Neither of us speaks, and I don’t want to be the one to break the comfortable silence. The moment is peaceful, precious. It’s something I don’t get often, and I want to cherish it while it lasts.

His other hand reaches to play with a strand of my hair, the sound of his breathing, the beating of his heart melting my worries away. My eyes close, and I feel comfortably safe in his arms. I pull one of my hands out of the blanket and trace patterns over his chest idly.

“Are you feeling better?”

Cove’s voice is soft. It’s weird. It’s never been this soft. A part of me wants to cling to the moment because Lord knows when I’ll hear it the next time. But the other part of me feels too exposed, too vulnerable. It’s like he sees me as some sort of a porcelain doll that will break if he uses his normal voice.

“Yeah,’’ I mumble.

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