Page 98 of Kings Against the World

“Get away from him! Get away from my husband!”

The way she throws herself at him like a shield is nauseating. Glancing over at Zoe, I can see I’m not the only one who feels that way.

There’s pain etched onto her face, eyes still so shiny I could see my reflection in them. It’s the look of heartbreak, her brows pushed together and lips rolled tight as if to hold in the cry begging for release.

Zoe’s finally seeing her parents for what they are; she’s coming to terms with the fact that they’ve been users all along.

They’ve never loved her like they should.

“Come on,” I say, voice still rougher than usual. My temper’s still driving me, the urges to wreck her father almost unbearable. I reach for her wrist to pull her with me. “You need to get out of here. For your own sanity.”

For my sanity too… or else Iwillwreck him.

She doesn’t fight me on it. She doesn’t even say a word. Just lets me pull her away from the house and toward my bike, away from the man who never deserved to call himself her father.

We head to Zoe’s studio. She’s quiet the entire ride over. The craziness at her parents’ house seems to weigh on her, leaving her exhausted and spent. I have to help her with the keys to unlock the door to her apartment.

The door swings open and she trudges inside almost like she’s sleepwalking. She drops her purse and set of keys on the kitchenette counter and then crosses the compact space without bothering with a light.

I’m the one who flicks the switch nearest the kitchenette, lighting up the place.

Her studio is… barren. Squeaky clean but lacking any real character. Everything’s minimal, making the space look hardly lived in. There’s no color unless you count white and gray, and not a single personal item that’s decoration.

Where most people would place a couch, Zoe’s put a treadmill. It’s positioned directly in front of a mounted TV. The only other pieces of furniture she’s bothered with are two bar stools by the kitchenette counter and the bed tucked into the corner by the window. Even the bedding’s minimal, white sheets, pillows, and a thin blanket swathed across the top.

If you told me somebody lived here, I’d call you a liar. I’m nobody to judge when my trailer regularly looks like a damn tornado’s passed through, but whatever this is, is the opposite. It’s like some huge vacuum combed through the place and sucked out any warmth and life.

It makes me look over at Zoe, an ache in my chest for her. She’d probably never admit it—vulnerability’s damn near her kryptonite—but this is a cold, lonely space. This is somewhere that’s been like a prison cell for her.

Zoe makes it to her bed, rubbing her arms, a lost expression on her face. Then, like her body’s given up on her, she drops onto the side of the bed and stares down at her sneakers before she tries to slide them off.

The task seemed easier than it is, as the left shoe gets stuck on her heel and she gives up altogether.

I don’t give it any thought. I just move.

Crossing the room in two short strides, I kneel in front of her and take her left foot in my hand, gently sliding it out of her sneaker. I do the same for her right until only her plain black ankle socks cling to her feet and she’s staring down at me like it hasn’t registered what I’ve done.

Her hazel eyes usually hold a spark that’s amazed me at times. But right now, they’re puffy and bloodshot, glossed by unshed tears.

Fuck… I’ve never wanted to take away someone’s pain more. I want to be the person that she lets in…

An instinctual urge awakens inside me like it never has before with anyone else. I want to be the guy she can depend on right now. Maybe I’ve always wanted that. I just hadn’t known it.

My mind searches for other ways I can help. Something I can do or say to make things easier for her.

Then I remember her bedtime ritual and snap into action. I push to my feet and head to the kitchenette to make her favorite herbal tea. At the hotel in Vegas, she’d relied on the single-serve coffee pot and some Viva Las Vegas mug she’d bought in a gift shop to make her cups of tea before bed. Drawing a few cabinets open, I’m able to find everything I need, including the box of tea.

A few minutes later, I return to her with a sleep shirt I’ve dug out of her dresser and the warm mug of herbal tea I’ve made.

“Figured this might help,” I say.

She blinks like she’s forgotten I’m here, still in some kind of trance from tonight’s events. I set the mug down and hold up the sleep shirt.

“You should get in bed. Get some sleep. It might help.”

Slowly, she nods, though she makes no attempt to reach for the shirt.

I’m cautious about my next suggestion, fully aware how it could blow up in my face. Her old, stubborn ways can return in the blink of an eye.

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