Page 158 of Tangled Kisses
If there’s one thing I learned as a nurse, it’s how to answer the questions correctly. Give them the responses they want to hear.
The doctors knew I was lying when I brushed off the “fall.” The nurse’s eyes lingered too long, her pen hesitated too often. She saw me for what I was—just another woman too stubborn, too scared, to tell the truth.
They ran the tests anyway. Scans, prods, too many questions. They told me to wait a week before flying. I lasted forty-eight hours.
Just long enough to stop seeing stars every time I stood. Long enough to scrub the blood out of my hair. Long enough to realize I couldn’t stay in that apartment another second.
Every slam of a door in the hallway, every creak of the floorboards above me felt like Vander’s men had come to finish the job. So I slipped out with cash, ducked into a drugstore for supplies, and checked into a seedy motel under an assumed name.
I knew it wouldn’t keep me safe if he truly wanted to find me. But at least it bought me time.
And then I realized, Vander wasn’t coming.
Mrs. Hale had kept her word and kept her monster at bay.
Now I needed to get the hell out of here.
Back to Tangled Vines.
Back to my spoiled tabby cat and his obnoxiously loud purrs.
Back to Griffin. My heart and soul.
If he ever speaks to me again.
The pain in my body is nothing compared to the pain on his face the day I shattered us. The way he looked at me, gutted and betrayed, never knowing the truth.
I thought about calling—Griffin, Piper, my parents. But the only number I can remember is my parent’s landline, which they disconnected a few years back. And landing on their doorstep is not an option.
My mother will break down if she sees me like this, and Dad will no doubt fly into a rage that could end up killing him.
So I book the flight instead. Because home is the only call left to make.
The plane touches down with a shudder, and my chest aches with relief. I keep my sunglasses firmly in place, shielding more than just my eyes. At baggage claim, I move on autopilot, and by the time I slip into the airport bathroom, it’s blessedly empty.
I brace myself against the counter and peel the sunglasses off.
The cut near my eye has faded to a thin line, but the bruise beneath it is an angry purple, spreading wide and uneven across the bone. My reflection stares back at me, a woman I barely recognize. I angle my head, gingerly touching the tender spot where Vander tossed me into the bookcase. The contusion pulses, a steady throb, a reminder of the moment the world went black.
My gaze drifts lower. The sweater hides most of it, but I know what’s there—fingerprints along my ribs, mottled bruises scattered like a map of violence across my skin.
And then there’s my throat.
Even now, faint purple shadows circle my neck. The marks don’t line up cleanly—just blurred ovals, patches of pressure where his hands had been. I don’t remember him doing it. Not clearly.
My mind blanks when I try. But my body hasn’t forgotten.
Sometimes the problemwith a surprise is that no one’s waiting on the other side.
I drive straight from the airport to Griffin’s cabin, heart pounding the whole way. But his truck isn’t there. I knock anyway, praying he’ll fling the door open, gather me against his chest, make all of this vanish, even for a breath.
Silence answers.
My throat tightens, but I force myself back into the car. Okay. The ranch. Piper. Chowder. Somebody has to be there.
When I step inside, Sabine’s the first person I see. She lifts her head, brows rising. “Oh. You’re back.”
“Yep.”
