Page 22 of The Deception You Weave
"But—"
"Luca, please. I'm coming for coffee. I'll just meet you there."
His eyes plead with me to just leave with him and just when I think he's going to agree. He looks up. And this time I know he's not missed Kane.
"Scarlett," he growls, his jaw popping in anger.
"It's okay, Luc."
"Nothing about this is okay. Look what he did to you, how he treated you."
"He's not going to touch me. We just need to talk."
Luca stares down at me, his nostrils flaring, the muscle in his neck pulsating.
"Luc," I whisper.
"I'll be right outside the door. Leon too. If you need us, shout and we'll take the motherfucker out."
I smile at him, appreciating his need to protect me even if it is a little suffocating.
"Thank you," I mouth as he swings his bag over his shoulder and backs away from me.
Before he's forced to turn around, his eyes lift to what I can only assume are a pair of furious blue ones behind me.
With his silent warning hanging in the air, Luca reluctantly leaves with the last of the students.
The second the door is closed leaving only the two of us in here, I struggle to breathe.
Silence rings out for the longest time but I can't find it in me to turn around, to do anything.
"What are you doing, Princess?" His deep voice echoes around the vast space and I jolt as it hits me right in the chest.
"We need to talk." I have no idea if he hears me because it comes out quiet and weak and I hate it.
"No, you need to leave. I can't even look at you," he spits.
Affronted by his words, I hop up out of my chair and storm to the aisle.
The second my eyes land on him, I gasp.
He's no longer sitting in the shadows, hiding from the world, he's standing at the very top of the stairs, holding on to the nearest chair as if it's his lifeline.
The bruising that I remember from the hospital down the side of his face is still dark and angry, but that's the only visible sign of what he went through.
"Where's your sling? Your arm—"
"Is fine," he barks, the words echoing around the room.
I want to argue with him but I know it's pointless.
Slowly he starts to descend, and when I say slowly, I really mean it.
Pain twists his features to the point that I feel it for him. But I know he won't welcome my help. So, instead, my grip on my bag tightens, my nails digging into the leather strap over my shoulder.
My breathing becomes more labored the closer he gets and my muscles ache for me to run. But I refuse to.
Nothing he can say or do to me can hurt as much as what I've already been through.
