Page 97 of Bottles & Blades

The look of rage on his face sends icy cold through me.

“Don’t hurt?—”

I don’t get the chance to finish the statement because then he’s in front of us.

Betweenus.

One second, my hair is being yanked. The next, the pressure and pain is gone and his arm is around my middle, drawing me behind him.

I expect to see my mom on the floor, broken and bloody or worse.

I expect to see her gasping for breath, like Dave had when Jean-Mi confronted him a few days back.

Instead, Jean-Michel’s holding both of her shoulders, crouching to meet her eyes. His voice deadly serious and yet, deadly calm when he says, “You don’t touch her like that. You don’t talk to her like that. Not when I’m here. Not when I’m not.”

Bracing for my mother’s response to that, I open my mouth.

But I don’t get there.

Because she bursts into tears, yanks out of Jean-Michel’s hold, and runs from the room.

I close my eyes for a moment.

Then exhale and open them.

He’s right in front of me—exactly like I knew he would be.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

I nod even though adrenaline is rippling through me and my knees are weak and I just want to curl up in the corner and pretend this isn’t my life. “She’s not well and…” I clear my throat, blink the tears away. “The dementia makes her even meaner than normal.”

“I’m seeing that.”

“I…she doesn’t normally get physical.”

That sends something flaring through his eyes, probably thenormallyrevealing too much. Like the fact that she has been physical before. I open my mouth to say something to settle him—though I have no clue what.

This is pretty much my worst nightmare, and this brilliant, wonderful man has witnessed it.

“I’m glad that’s the case, buttercup.”

My eyes shoot up at the gentle words, but he doesn’t give me a chance to put distance between us, just comes close, one arm wrapping around me, the other lifting, gently touching my cheek, running through my hair. “You have a couple of scratches,” he murmurs, “but I don’t think they’ll bruise.”

I inhale sharply.

“Does your scalp hurt?”

“It’s fine.”

“That’s not what I asked, baby.”

I close my eyes. Breath. Then nod. “It hurts. But it’ll be fine in a bit.”

He brushes his knuckles over my cheek, but I can’t sit in that soft touch, not when it makes me want to collapse in his hold and allow the tears to come.

“I need to check in with my dad,” I tell him. “And then I need to make sure my mom is okay too.” I sigh. “Then I need to clean this disaster up while I wait for their caregiver. Do you want me to call you a Lyft?”

His brows drag together. “Why would you want to call me a car?”

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