Page 23 of August and the Night

As I take glances at Layla’s bruised cheek, I feel my breath coming out harsher and uneven. The anger within me is a roaring storm, threatening to consume me whole. How dare someone lay their hand on her? Even if I'm supposed to despise her, I can't bear the thought of anyone hurting her. But I can't admit to myself that this visceral rage is anything more than my sense of duty to protect a woman in a vulnerable situation.

I continue to drive, my mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. I clench my jaw, trying to delude myself into thinking that the murderous rage coursing through me isn't because of how much I care about her. No, it's simply the result of a man laying his hands on a woman.

"Where are we going?" she asks, her voice soft and trembling.

My response is curt, my words laced with an edge of harshness. "We're going to my home. You won't be staying under the same roof as someone who dared to lay his hands on you."

Her expression turns from confusion to alarm. "Your home? But my father—"

I cut her off, my tone unforgiving. "I don't care. If he so much as touches you, little dove, I will make sure he never sees the light of day again."

Her eyes widen with fear, and she shakes her head vehemently. "You don't understand. My father... he won't hesitate to—"

"He won't lay a finger on you again," I interrupt, my voice a dangerous growl.

She hesitates, her fear evident. "You don't get it, August. If I don't go back, he'll... he'll truly kill me."

I feel my grip tighten on the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white. "I won't let that happen."

She looks at me, desperation in her eyes. "Please, August, just take me back to my house. I'll be fine. I promise."

My anger surges anew, fueled by my determination to keep her safe. "No," I snap, my tone final. "You're not going back there."

Tears well up in her eyes, and her voice quivers. "You don't understand. It's not that simple. He'll—"

"He won't touch you again," I declare, my voice ironclad. "I won't allow it."

Her gaze drops, defeated, and I can sense her reluctance to argue further. But she is anxious, and I know that even though she's yielding, she's far from convinced.

We drive in tense silence, both us not uttering a word. I can't let her stay in that house, not when the threat to her safety is so evident. And deep down, I know that my reasons for wanting her close go beyond the excuses I give to myself. But for now, I'll push those feelings aside, focusing solely on ensuring her safety—no matter the cost.

We arrive at my house, and I take fast strides to open Layla’s car door. I swiftly lift her from the car, ignoring her protests that she can walk. The need to protect her, to keep her close and safe, is an instinct that overwhelms any logic or reason. She's small, fragile in my arms, and the idea that she might endure any kind of abuse is suffocating.

Once inside, I gently set her down, my eyes never leaving her. She looks up at me, her expression a mix of irritation and exasperation, yet I can see the hint of vulnerability lurking beneath the surface.

I can't help but study the discoloration on her cheek more, a stark contrast against her supple pale skin. The fire in my chest burns like an inferno, but I rein it in, focusing on the need to comfort her. Leaning in, I brush my lips against the bruise on her cheek, a gentle kiss. She sighs as she leans in to my lips and slightly chases after them as they leave her cheek.

"Feel free to change into something more comfortable and take a shower," I suggest to Layla, my tone softer than before. She looks weary, and my concern for her hasn't lessened. Her well-being is my priority now, and I want her to feel safe and at ease in my home.

"I don't have any pajamas here," she replies, her voice uncertain. I remember that she stayed over after our sushi date, and a small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. "John bought some for you last time," I remind her, watching her reaction closely.

Her cheeks tinge pink as she shyly nods, her gaze dropping to the floor. When she begins to move toward the guest bedroom, I act on an impulse and catch her by the arm gently. "Wait," I say, my eyes darkening slightly. "Instead of pajamas, how about wearing one of my shirts?"

Her eyes widen, surprise evident in her expression. She opens her mouth to protest, but I'm not about to let her get away. With a firm grip on her hand, I lead her to my bedroom. She looks at me with embarrassment as I hand her one of my oversized sweatshirts.

"It's more comfortable than pajamas, trust me," I reassure her, my voice a low murmur. "And I'd like you to see you in something that's mine."

Crimson colors her cheeks, but she takes the sweatshirt from my hand. Her fingers brush against mine, sending a jolt of electricity through me. "I… I guess," she stammers, her voice barely audible.

"Good," I say with a satisfied grin. "Now go get changed." She squeals softly, the sound music to my ears, and practically dashes to the bathroom in the guest bedroom. I chuckle to myself, unable to hide my amusement at her reaction. As she disappears from view, I can't help but feel a warmth spreading through me—I ignore it; this is nothing.

After about fifteen minutes, Layla emerges from the bathroom, her hair still damp from the shower, and I can't help but notice her struggling to comb through the tangles. Without thinking, I move closer and gently take the brush and towel from her hand. She looks at me with surprise and an inkling of lust as I start to work through her long, wavy locks.

"Nobody but Lily has ever done this for me," she admits softly, her eyes fixed on me as I comb through her hair. Her vulnerability tugs at something inside me.

I continue to brush her hair, my touch gentle as I untangle the knots. "Well, you're not alone anymore," I reply, my voice softer than usual. "And you have quite beautiful hair."

A faint blush colors her cheeks, and she offers me a small smile. "Thank you," she murmurs.

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