Page 82 of Shattered Melodies

LIAM

Ifelt like I’d been hit by a truck. No, scratch that. A truck would have been kinder. This was more like being trampled by a herd of elephants, then backed over by a steamroller for good measure.

Every inch of my body ached, from the pounding in my head to the dull throb of my ribs. I groaned, trying to pry my eyes open, but even that small movement sent a fresh wave of pain crashing over me.

“Fuck me,” I muttered, my voice rough and scratchy. “What the hell happened last night?”

As if in answer, I felt a rough little tongue start lapping at my face, accompanied by a soft, insistent mewing.

Peanut. Of course. My little furball of a nurse, always ready with a dose of feline TLC.

I managed a weak chuckle, reaching up to scratch her behind the ears. “Thanks, baby girl. I appreciate the wake-up call, but maybe take it easy on the sandpaper tongue, yeah?”

Peanut just purred, butting her head against my hand like she couldn’t get enough of my attention. I smiled, feeling a rush of affection for this tiny, fierce creature who had become such an important part of my life.

But as I lay there, trying to gather the strength to sit up, I realized something was off. Something about the way the light was filtering through the windows, the angle of the shadows on the wall wit was wrong. Different from the way it should have been, if I’d woken up in my own bed like I usually did.

Frowning, I forced my eyes open, blinking against the bright sunlight that seemed to stab into my brain like a hot poker.

And that’s when I saw it. Saw the familiar lines of my living room couch, the battered old coffee table that had seen better days.

I was on the couch. In my living room.

What the fuck?

I tried to think back, tried to piece together the fragmented memories of the night before. But it was like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing and the other half covered in mud.

I remembered the bar. Remembered the burn of whiskey in my throat and the dull ache of misery in my chest. Remembered the anger, the frustration, the overwhelming need to just escape. To run from the pain and the heartache and the suffocating weight of my own fucking life.

And then there was a fight. A blur of fists and fury, of snarled insults and the sickening crunch of bone on bone. But after that, nothing. A blank, a void where the rest of the night should have been.

How the hell had I gotten home? And more importantly, who had brought me here?

As if in answer to my unspoken question, I heard the front door creak open. I tensed, my heart kicking into overdrive as a sudden, irrational fear swept through me.

Fuck. I really needed to start locking my doors.

I tried to sit up, tried to prepare myself for whatever fresh hell was about to walk through that door. But my body had other ideas, a fresh wave of pain and nausea slamming into me like a freight train.

I collapsed back against the cushions with a groan, my head spinning and my stomach churning. Peanut meowed in concern, her little paws kneading at my chest like she was trying to physically hold me together.

“Stay still,” Caleb said, his tone gentle but firm. “Your wounds from the fight haven’t healed yet.”

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Caleb. Caleb was here, in my house. Caleb had brought me home?

The memories started to trickle back, slow and sluggish at first, then faster and faster until they were a raging torrent that threatened to sweep me away.

The fight. The cop breaking it up, pulling me away from the chaos. The realization of who that cop was, the shock and the disbelief and the overwhelming, gut-wrenching sense of déjà vu.

And then Caleb, holding me as I fell apart. Caleb, murmuring words of comfort and reassurance as I sobbed into his chest, as I clung to him like he was the only solid thing in a world that wouldn’t stop spinning.

Oh, fuck. Oh, shit. I had broken down, completely and utterly, in front of the one person I had sworn I would never let see me so vulnerable again.

The humiliation was a physical thing, a hot, prickling rush that spread from my cheeks to the tips of my ears. I wanted to sink into the couch cushions, to disappear and never have to face the consequences of my own weakness.

But Caleb was still there. Still watching me with those deep, knowing eyes, his brow furrowed with concern.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly, his voice low and gentle, like he was talking to a skittish animal.

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