Page 62 of Broken Honor

Bruised, swollen, lips split and leaking dried red into the corner of her mouth. She’s hunched at the edge of the couch, twiddling with the torn hem of her skirt like a child waiting to be scolded, muttering something under her breath I can’t catch. Probably prayers. Probably begging whatever god she thinks is listening to take her somewhere—anywhere—far from me.

I blink, slow. My eyes sting like fire’s still licking the edges. Bleach is a bitch to the face, especially when you weren’t expecting it. My skin feels raw, tight around the sockets. It’s eased off some, but the ache behind my brows hasn’t. The welt from that goddamn mantle still pulses across my back, a dull throb radiating down my spine like my body’s trying to remind me what a fucking idiot I am.

I’m shirtless, crouched at the armrest while Enzo hovers behind me, fingers cool against the bruised skin.

“It’s bad,” he mutters. “Deep bruise. Might swell worse by morning, but at least it’s not open. Lucky bastard. Should get something on it though.”

Then, he pauses.

“Is this some kind of lovers’ squabble or what?”

“Shut up,” I grunt, rolling my shoulders, ignoring the way it makes the pain spike.

I push off the couch and stand. The fabric of my shirt sticks for a moment when I yank it off the armrest where I tossed it, and I slide it on slowly, each button a chore against skin that’s throbbing with heat.

My gaze flicks back to her.

The girl.

She hasn’t moved. Eyes wide, skin pale as ash, like she’s afraid even to breathe wrong. She’s clutching that ruined skirt like it’s a lifeline, and there’s this faint tremor in her arms—like her body hasn’t caught up with the fact that she’s still alive. I look at her long enough to see the bruises down her collarbone now that the blouse is torn halfway open. Red patches. Purple shadows. I didn’t realize how hard she’d hit the floor.

I didn’t realize how much I hurt her.

My fingers still on the last button, and for a second, I just watch her. Try to figure out how to clean this mess up.

I was going to shoot her. Right there in the room. Quick. Quiet. Easier on everyone. She didn’t know anything—Mother J’s son probably croaked out the word “diamonds” before collapsing. She was just some innocent café girl with cinnamon-sweet skin and big, glassy eyes that couldn’t lie if they tried.

But then she asked to pee.

I thought nothing of it.

She’s cleverer than I gave her credit for. Doesn’t look it, not with that mess of auburn curls knotted and dangling over her eyes, and that innocent shake in her voice like she’s on the verge of tears.

But she has been fighting since the very minute she got here. There are grown men who would resign to their fate in this situation.

The mantle was tipping. I saw it. I could’ve watched it crush her and ended this whole situation in one clean hit.

But the second I saw that wood start to drop, my body moved to protect hers like it was wired into my bones.

I curse under my breath, scrubbing a hand down my face.

Her curls still smell faintly of flour and cinnamon. I remember it from when I held her under the weight of that mantle, her body soft and trembling under mine.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I should’ve let her die.

And yet here I am—shirt sticking to blood and bruises, pride half-scorched from a goddamn bottle of bleach—and she’s still breathing.

Enzo clears his throat beside me. “Am I interrupting… whatever this is?”

I swing my glare toward him. “Don’t start.”

Before I can tear into him properly, the door swings open like a storm behind us.

Riccardo stomps in, eyes blazing, face red. “Bellandi’s here. That bastard really had the fucking guts to show his face and I swear I’m gonna kill him.”

He’s already pulling a piece from his belt when I hear the girl gasp. Riccardo’s eyes snap to her.

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