Page 156 of Salvatore

I don’t have the opportunity to place my mug on the coffee table before the anticipated knuckles of his clenched fist slam into the side of my face, spilling boiling liquid over the leg of my pants as welcomed pressure consumes my skull.

I fucking needed that—the pain, the distraction—anything that can get my thoughts away from Ivy.

“If youeverpoint a gun at her again, I’ll fucking kill you.” He jabs a finger in my face. “I don’t give a shit if you’re my brother.”

He stalks past me as Olivia rushes forward, slamming into his chest and wrapping her arms around him while I test the movement of my jaw, making sure that fucker didn’t break it.

“Now hurry up and tell us what the hell happened.” He holds her tight, glaring at me over her shoulder.

“Fine.” I place my mug on the coffee table and wipe the spilled liquid from my fingers onto my already damp pants. “What have you been told?”

“That Ivy was admitted to hospital.” Abri slumps back into her seat.

“Excuse me?” Olivia bristles. “She’s hurt?”

I look away, the tendrils of anger reaching for me again. If she makes a move for that goddamn hall, I’ll?—

“You told me he wouldn’t hurt her.” Olivia shoves a hand against Remy’s sternum. “You told me she’d be safe.”

“Can we all take a fucking breath and calm the hell down?” Bishop crosses the room, moving between Olivia and the hall.

“And lower your goddamn voices,” I growl. “Ivy’s sleeping.”

“She’s worried about her friend.” Abri folds her arms over her chest. “But sure, let’s focus on volume control instead.”

“I want to see her.” Olivia backtracks toward Bishop. “Now.”

“Sit the fuck down.” I tighten my grip on my gun, my palm sweating.

“What happened to her?” She raises her voice. “What did you do?”

Everyone adds to the verbal melee—snapping warnings, offering excuses, barking demands.

The noise increases along with the break-neck speed of my surging rage until Ivy appears in the archway, pale, drawn, and dressed in nothing but my suit jacket.

Everyone falls quiet. Me included.

She’s a vision of delicate ruin, her hair loose around her shoulders, dark bags under her eyes, a fragile hand clutching the lapels to keep the material from gaping.

Olivia runs for her. “Oh, my god. Are you okay?”

“Careful.” I shove to my feet as the brainless woman collides with Ivy, jostling her backward with a rough hug.

I see red. I fuckingfeelit. Everywhere. The heat of fury scorches my veins and demands retaliation.

“Don’t even think about it.” Matthew sidles up beside me and snatches my gun. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

My animosity zeroes in on him, an unspoken torrent of protective wrath leveled in his direction. But the condemnation in his gaze softens, as if he sees past my need for violence to the obsessive reasoning beneath.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, shoving my gun into the front of his waistband while Olivia continues to smother Ivy. “This is a problem. Ahugefucking problem.”

“You should let her sit down.” Layla looks on in concern. “She seems fragile.”

“Sheisfragile,” I bite out.

Ivy winces and gains an arm’s length of space from her stage-five clinger best friend. “Sitting down would be great.”

I battle the urge to step in, to be the one who helps her to the sofa. Instead, I grit my teeth and move aside, letting Olivia guide her to the seat I just vacated.

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