“You didn’t answer. You didn’t text. I went to thirty bars. I thought—”
He swallows whatever comes next. Hard.
“I said I’m sorry,” I repeat.
Honestly, I expect some sympathy from my boyfriend, but I’m unsure I’ll get any.
I reach to touch his arm, but he flinches and jerks away.
“Don’t,” he growls.
He finally side glances. His jaw tightens again, shadowing his sculpted face. His gaze drops to my hands rested on my lap, clutched in a ball, and sticking out the bottom of the shirt. Still cuffed.
His breath hitches.
He shifts in his seat, practically about to break his molars from clamping his jaw down so tightly. A muscle in his thigh jumps.
Then I see it.
The bulge in his pants.
He tries to hide it. Adjust his hips. Turns away.
Guilt blankets his face.
And then, pieces fall together, and a soft gasp escapes my lips.
He’s hard:Because of how I look.
My body was exposed and slick with Riser’s oil. My wrists and ankles left me helpless and bound. He liked it. He wanted it.
For one horrible moment, my brain screams:He’s like Riser.
Long ago, he said he liked girls tied up in the bedroom, but I thought that was a role play thing. That it wouldn’t turn him on if the girl was truly scared.
I cry to myself, feeling ashamed, scared, and so damn confused.
But then, my heart fights. Deep beneath the flood of emotions, it uplifts a powerful sense of doubt that breaks free. Because Grayson searched for me. He fought for me. Bled for me.
He saved my life.
And that look in his eyes, the one he’s trying to hide, isn’t cold like Riser’s.
It’s tortured.
Wrecked.
Possessive.
Chapter 31
Charlotte
He says nothing the rest of the drive. Just breathes through his nose, bloodied knuckles tight around the wheel. Once home, he jumps out, slams the truck door, and disappears into the house.
No comfort. No checking if I’m okay. Just nothing.
Like I’m nothing.
