Page 385 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
Whether Shane continues talking or Ambrose replies, I don’t know. All I can hear on the other side of the door is Bubbles, clawing and barking and pawing the handle to get in to me.
Impatience rattles against the wood beyond the barking as another knock comes.
“Hey, unicorn,” Ambrose’s tone is sharper than usual, showing that same emotion. “I’m coming in.”
The door opens slowly, muffling whatever Shane says under his breath.
I slide myself back on the tiles, placing myself directly under the light as Ambrose turns it on. I’m rocking when he takes a single step forward.
The hate on his face shifts from my view as he gives me his back, turning back to Shane. It lasts only a second before he turns back to me.
The tightness in his jaw shows he’s torn between following Shane’s weasel-like footsteps, creeping through the house, and coming to me.
My hand reaches out, and I don’t care that I look desperate. There’s no hiding how terrified I am, my body still quaking.
I need him.
CHAPTER 85
Ambrose—present day
Shane is a lying prick.
I’m sure that’s what Bubbles is saying in dog language, too. Twisting the doorknob, I step into the bathroom doorway and flood the place with light.
My body tenses, and my hands ball into fists, each nail leaving little half-moon injuries against my palm.
Silent shoes move sneakily across the kitchen, stalling when my eyes dare him to move.
I’m not a violent person, but there’s a need inside me that’s hard to fight. The voice in my head tells me not to put my hands on him because I’ll lose Dollie again.
I spin back to her, all other senses, including my balled fists, still telling me to break his fucking neck.
Bubbles rushes through the door, almost pushing me over. Dollie’s hand stretches out, asking me to choose her.
There’s no other choice.
I take the first step in, a giant one. Three more land me at her side, that knee joint popping on the tiles. The pain doesn’t penetrate my anger.
Bubbles crouches at her other side, her front legs over Dollie’s. The dog’s pearly whites are on display as she snarls at the door.
I pull her in, fingers combing through cake crumbs and frosting in her wet hair.
“Don’t touch me,” she croaks.
One hand massaging her throat. There are no bruises there, but something hurts her. Her other hand flattens to my chest, both of them bruised.
“I’m full of germs. In my hair. My hair is full of germs.”
“I don’t give a shit about that. Come to me.” I pull her in, my fingers weaving back through her hair, cradling her head as she rests it on my shoulder.
She winces, tensing up as I touch certain parts of her.
“I’m hurt.”
“I’ll be careful not to move you. Where are you hurt?”
“My stomach. My throat.”
