Page 82 of The Bad Boy Rule

Oh my God.

My hand flies to my mouth to stop the noise that threatens to burst free, trapping it in the back of my throat.

He’shurt.

His bottom lip is split open and still seeping red. The skin around his right eye is bruised, black and purple and blue, almost completely swollen shut. The cut on his cheekbone is raised and angry, like the skin was pried open, caked with dried blood.

My throat moves as a rough swallow courses down it, and because I can’t stop myself, I go to him, colliding against his hard, wet body, throwing my arms around his waist and holding him tightly against me.

He still hasn’t said a single word.

I bury my face into his chest, squeezing my eyes shut. I’m not sure what to say, and even if I did, I think… this says more than words would ever be able to.

So I just hold on as tightly as I can. Until my arms ache.

Until his arms finally slip around me, and he holds on to me like he’s drowning and I’m the life raft.

Until I can feel his big body trembling against me.

Whether from emotion or the chill of the rain, I’m not sure, but we can’t stay outside in this any longer.

“Saint, you’re freezing. We have to go in,” I say, pulling back to look up at him. When he flicks his gaze to me, his eyes are distant, hazy, and I hate it.

I hate that whatever’s happened… it’s left wounds that aren’t just the ones I can see.

They’re inside too, and I’ve never felt more helpless.

I reach for his hand, threading our fingers together and gently pulling him back into my apartment.

Neither of us speaks as I squeeze his hand, not letting go as I lead him to my bedroom and shut the door behind us. I turn on the lamp next to the bed, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow, and the sight of him steals every breath from my lungs.

It’s even worse than I thought. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, and I know that whatever’s happened, he’s been crying.

God, my heart is aching.

He’s freezing and hurt, and he looks so completely broken that hot tears prick behind my lids. I close the distance between us and slip my hands beneath the black T-shirt plastered to him, slowly pulling it up. He tugs it over his head and hisses, face pulling tight, wincing like the movement hurt him.

That’s when I notice the large bruise that travels along his side and trails over his rib cage.

“Saint,” I whisper. “Do you need to go to the hospital? I’m… I’m worried.”

His head shakes.

I want to argue and tell him that he needs to be looked at, but I know that he’s not going to go.

Of all the places he could’ve gone, maybe that heshould’vegone… he came here.

Tome.

Overwhelmed with emotion, I tenderly press my lips onto his battered and bruised skin, gently kissing every wound I can see, one at a time, each one causing my heart to ache more painfully than the last.

I wish that I could take it all away, but I know that I can’t, so for now… I’m going to do what I can.

And that’s being here for him.

My feet carry me over to the bed, and I drop down onto the edge of the mattress, leaving whatever happens next up to him.

I know him. I know how hard it is for him to show the fragile, vulnerable parts of himself, to show his hard-fought emotions.

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