Page 19 of My Knight

I took a slow step forward. Sloane and Olive flanked me like bodyguards while Mac trailed behind us. It was overkill, but I didn’t say anything. Honestly? It was kind of nice.

“Can one of you grab me some clothes?” I asked.

“On it,” Mac said and veered off toward a black duffle bag sitting near the dresser. She crouched beside it and started digging through it like she knew what she was looking for.

Meanwhile, I continued toward the bathroom.

“I’m fine,” I told Dani over my shoulder. “Honestly.” I was sore—not broken.

When I reached the bathroom, I turned just as Mac handed over the bundle of clothes.

“I think I can take it from here.”

Mac, Sloane, and Olive exchanged glances like I had just said I was going to bungee jump.

“Get,” I said with a smirk. “I’m sore, not dead.”

Sloane and Olive backed away, but Mac lingered at the door.

“Don’t lock it,” she instructed. “And just holler if you need anything, okay? We’ll be right outside.”

I gave her a grateful nod. “Got it. Now go before I flash you.”

Mac grinned and finally backed out of the doorway. I closed the door behind her and left it unlocked like she asked.

I exhaled.

It was quiet. For the first time in what felt like days, I was alone.

I took a quick pee, flushed, and walked over to the mirror. Time to face the damage.

I stripped off my clothes, which took more effort than I expected. Every movement came with a wince or a hiss. I finally peeled off the last piece and looked at myself in the mirror.

Damn.

A dark bruise covered my lower stomach from where that bastard had kicked me. Three purple-and-blue splotches painted my left thigh—likely from when he tackled me. I turned a little and saw another bruise blooming across the curve of my butt. That must’ve happened when I hit the ground.

My arms, tattooed in bright, colorful ink, were still vibrant—but now had splotchy bruises weaved between the lines like some twisted mosaic. The cut on my forehead wasn’t huge—maybe three inches—but it was deep enough to leave a scar.

“Maybe bangs are in your future,” I muttered to my reflection.

There were a few other cuts on my cheek and chin that were all already starting to scab. At least the swelling was going down.

I turned on the water and waited for it to get hot. Steam filled the small bathroom quickly and curled around me like a cocoon.

When it was ready, I stepped in.

Hot water hit my skin, and I almost moaned. The heat soaked into my muscles and loosened the tight ache that had settled deep. I moved slowly and cautiously. Every bend and twist reminded me I wasn’t anywhere close to one hundred percent.

I carefully washed my hair, then my body, and moved over bruises like I was handling fine china. The shampoo smelled like Pirate.

I stood under the water long after I was clean, letting it wash over me and relaxing parts of me I didn’t even realize were tense. When the warmth started to fade into lukewarm, I finally shut off the water.

I stepped out and reached for the towel. I patted myself dry and moved back to the mirror. I brushed my wet hair slowly, and my eyes studied myself again.

It was still me. Beaten, bruised, tired—but still me.

The last seventy-two hours had been a blur of chaos, pain, and Pirate. Getting jumped, the ambulance, the clubhouse, the steady presence of his hand in mine—God, it was all so much. My emotions hadn’t even caught up yet.

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